


A Hunt Gone Wrong

by helena_s_renn, Helenas_bitch, orphan_account



Series: Teh Winchesters [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 82,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenas_bitch/pseuds/Helenas_bitch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt goes wrong and the brothers have to deal with the aftermath. And their shared past, which neither can forget. Stressed and injured, Sam and Dean struggle to keep their secrets, and keep each other alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is RPG-Fic. We are playing our characters back and forth by email. Please be aware that it doesn't read exactly like most fics. The overall story is rated "Adult". Not every individual chapter is. The overall pairing is Sam/Dean. Notes appear on first chapter only.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Some medical ick, blood. Flashbacks/references to underage messing around; minor het references.

The car jolted and Sam squeezed his eyes shut when the pain blossomed in his left arm. A quick look at Dean told him that his brother hadn't noticed. Sam leaned back against the passenger seat with clenched teeth. The last thing he needed was Dean going concerned elder brother on him: they had to get away. Besides, Dean was in no better state himself, so...

They hit another pothole, and this time, it took all of Sam's strength to keep from groaning. In addition to the agony, he was beginning to feel light-headed. Past experience made him think that, although he'd hit his head hard, it didn't feel like a concussion. The dizziness was more likely to be from blood loss caused by the wound in his bicep.

He stole a glance toward Dean. The older Winchester was focused on the road – a good thing given the breakneck speed they were traveling at. The part of Dean's face Sam could see was swollen and discolored as he'd caught most of the direct blows, in contrast to Sam who'd gone down after being shot. Dean also had a split lip, and for a second, Sam felt the urge to lick up the blood – what the hell?

This, too, must be due to the blood loss, he mused. What else could make him think of licking his brother's lip? Trying to fight off the disturbing thought, he forced his mind to return to earlier that night...

They'd managed to find the grave, where they'd salted and burned the remains, another spirit laid to rest. The living, however, weren't as easy to appease, as they'd found out right after when the cops had turned up unexpectedly – or rather, earlier than expected. Only the fact that Dean had parked the Impala on the other side of the cemetery had saved their asses: whereas the brothers had climbed the wall, jumped into their ride, and sped off, the officers had to make a round trip. By the time they reached the other side of the cemetery, Dean and Sam were gone. However, there were road blocks to be expected, so the further away they got as fast as possible, the better.

A few minutes into their flight, Dean had pulled up on the hard shoulder for a quick check-over. He'd slapped a dressing on Sam's arm, then winced as Sam palpated his chest in return. Confident that Dean's ribs weren't broken and that Sam wouldn't bleed out in the near future, they'd continued their drive.

So far, so good. However, as the adrenaline rush was slowly fading, Sam was beginning to think that his injury might be more severe than the initial assessment had revealed. He felt the blood trickling – flowing? – down his arm, and the weird light-headedness increasing. No way was he going to tell Dean, but eventually, his brother would notice. He always did...

Sam closed his eyes. Dean would find a safe place and then they'd take care of each other. Sam would bandage his brother's chest tightly, so that breathing with his badly-bruised ribs wouldn't hurt as much. A warm shiver ran through him at the thought of Dean's firm pecs under his hands and he bit his lip to stop the mental image. Dean would have a nice shiner, but he'd shrug it off with a badass comment, as he always did. Then, it would be Sam's turn.

He shuddered. A bullet was lodged in his arm, and taking it out would hurt like hell. There was a limit as to what medical supplies they could obtain. Dressings, antibiotics, no problem, but Schedule II drugs were hard to come by, even for them. Still, a – sick – part of him was actually looking forward to the improvised surgery. It was the only way he could ever have Dean's hands on him.

Sam felt nauseous. Not sure whether it was from the forbidden feelings he had for Dean or if he was going into shock, he assumed it was probably a mixture of both...

"...and anyway, what do you think?" Dean's voice trickled through the roaring in Sam's ears.

"Huh?"

Dean gave him a sharp look before returning his eyes to the road. "I said..."

Although he tried hard, Sam couldn't concentrate on whatever his brother was telling him. He was so cold and tired... All he wanted was to snuggle up against Dean under a warm blanket, like they'd done as kids. These were the only occasions he could remember that he'd felt safe, but he knew it would never happen again. They were men, brothers, and as such Sam must not have the feelings he had for Dean. Dean must never know...

"... listening at all? Bitch."

Sam couldn't work out whether Dean sounded more annoyed or worried, but suddenly he felt rage in his stomach.

"Why are you always calling me that?"

* * *

It should have been a simple – simple for them – remains-burning. The most difficult part had been finding the gravesite. They'd spent the better part of two days in the local library, the courthouse, the coroner's office, chasing down clues and the family. Dean left it to Sam to do most of the 'brains' work. He could do the research if he had to, but he was too restless to sit for long, better suited in his own opinion to being 'bad cop' of the equation when they went out in cheap suits and fake badges to get what they couldn't as two regular Joes.

But then it all turned to shit and wasn't that just typical? Someone had called the fuzz on them, and after a scuffle where they quickly broke free but not before the bigger guy had landed a couple blows to his face and one hell of a punch on Dean's ribs, he and Sam ran for it, coated in grave dirt with flames jumping out of the six-foot-deep hole behind them in the dark. Then there were the sharp cracks of police-issue .38's. Sam grunted as he was hit but didn't stumble. Dean was proud of his brother for that. He'd turned into a tough little – okay, giant – little shit in the last year, despite his tendency toward emotional confessions. It wasn't Sam who ever needed to confess, and Dean wasn't going to. No way in hell. There's no acceptable explanation for loving, _being in love with_ , one's own brother. But he could keep him close. 

Next thing he knew, they were over the fence and jumping into the Impala, the motor roaring to life and they were away in a spray of gravel under the tires, fishtailing till he gained control. His face was going to look like a troll's in the morning. The soreness was settling fast into his torso – the next few hours were not going to be comfortable, but they needed to get themselves long gone. 

Sam was strangely silent on his side of the front seat. When he deemed it safe, Dean pulled off the road. Yes, Sam had been hit, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig. "Dammit, Sammy, this is going to have to come out. But it'll have to wait." Grabbing their makeshift, but well-stocked, medical kit from under the seat, Dean helped Sam shrug one side of his jacket off his shoulder, then the faded flannel shirt, and pushed up the sleeve of his tee-shirt. In the years Sam had been away at school, he'd bulked up, no longer the skinny but tough kid Dean remembered, probably the California sunshine, all that healthy food, the time to care properly for himself. There was a bullet lodged in the meat of Sam's bicep, luckily not the tendon, but it was a shame to mar that perfection. He shivered at the prospect of digging it out later. Then Sam decided to give him the once-over and he could hardly stand it, pushing his hands away quickly before Sam detected his inappropriate reaction. Dean had always been too high-strung that way, and the enforced celibacy his brother invoked didn't help. 

Soon they were back on the road. Sam couldn't seem to stay awake. Had he really lost that much blood? Dean didn't think he'd banged his head. Talking to him didn't help, either. Sam couldn't string a sentence together or answer him coherently. They were going to have to find a motel soon, like it or not. He'd have liked at least another hundred miles behind them, but it couldn't be helped. In the next town, he found a cheap room for the night, dragged all their necessary gear in, and then, Sam. His brother could barely stand; Dean wrestled most of his weight and all the gangling limbs into the bed closer to the bathroom because the one next to the door was always Dean's, and lowered him as gently as possible. Sam was out in two seconds. Dean couldn't stop himself from ghosting his fingers over the sharp cheekbone and lower lip. 

* * *

"Rise and shine..." 

Sam wasn't sure if Dean had actually said it or if he was imagining things. What he thought he wasn't imagining was that the car had come to a stop – and that he suddenly found himself alone. Panic began to rise in his chest, but then he heard his brother's steps approaching the passenger door. How was it possible that Dean's tread still sounded confident, even though he must be at least as exhausted as Sam?

Dean shook his arm – the good one – and Sam's sluggish mind told him that the older Winchester wanted him to do something, but he couldn't quite work it out. Coming to think about it, hadn't Sam asked him a question earlier? Why couldn't he remember the reply? Or had there been a reply?

The grip on his arm tightened. "Dammit, Sammy," he heard his brother muttering, and he opened his mouth to complain about the pet name. He wasn't a child anymore! Before he could speak, however, a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and extricated him from the car with infinite care as to not jostle his injured arm.

Sam sighed as he leaned heavily against Dean's firm chest. His knees buckled, and he thought he heard another suppressed curse as Dean somehow managed to manoeuvre him into a room, then onto a bed. The moment Dean let go of him, Sam went floppy, already missing the contact.

So tired! It wasn't only the blood loss but also the fact that he hadn't had a proper night of sleep since they'd arrived in the small town that had presented them with this nasty little surprise. Their motel room had had only a single king size bed, so they'd had to share. Terrified at the thought of seeking Dean's proximity, to the point of humping his older brother in his sleep, Sam had forced himself to stay awake. 

That in itself had been pure torture: he'd witnessed a few very happy sounds coming from Dean that had made the blood pool painfully in his loins. Furthermore, while Sam had done most of the research on the job, Dean had spent his days working out mostly, blowing off what he referred to as 'nervous energy'. It meant that when the older brother returned to the motel late in the evening, the younger was already in bed, trying to catch up on much-needed rest. Being woken by Dean reeking of male sweat mingled with sex was oh-so-sweet and at the same time agony because he knew it would never be him Dean smelled of after having sex...

Suddenly, he found that he must be dreaming because it felt as if a hand that could only be his brother's gently caressed his cheek and lower lip. Sam whimpered softly, hoping he wouldn't wake up...

* * *

Sam whined like a kicked puppy at his touch, and Dean yanked his hand back. What the hell was that? He'd rarely touched a woman like that, much less his own brother. What was wrong with the kid, anyway? He'd lost blood, sure, but not enough to make him as unresponsive and slack as a boned fish. Could be shock. It would only get worse after he dug the bullet out. 

Speaking of... no time like the present. Dean sorted through the medical kit again. Meager, but it would have to do. He was lucky to have antibiotics at all, and he would see to it that Sam took his full dose. There was a scalpel, tweezers, needle and thread to stitch him up again, Betadine, bandages, all of which he laid out on what he hoped was a clean towel from the bathroom. Dean wrinkled his nose at the state of them. Still filthy from the gravesite, drenched in the sweat of exertion, nerves and pain... Sam was going to need something to bite on during 'surgery', and Dean was going to have to sterilize that arm effectively before that. He'd already helped Sam out of the tangle of upper body clothes once earlier. Well, it couldn't be helped. He sure as hell was in no shape to give Sam a shower or bath. They'd probably slip and crack their grapefruits open, not to mention the embarrassment... 

Sighing, Dean worked open his belt buckle and pulled it from the loops, folding the leather over once. He supposed, dizzily, that a ring of tooth-marks on it might make for a good conversation starter, later. Sitting on the side of the bed next to the worse-for-the-wear form of his brother, shoving back the desire to simply lie down with him and... Shut up, Dean! He barked at his lizard brain. This needed to be done now. Comfort, in the form of sleep if nothing else, could come later. He could always jack off while Sam was passed out in recovery. Indulge in imagery of his brother on his knees before him, or worse... Dean ground his teeth till his jaw ached and tamped down _those_ thoughts. 

"Sam... Sam! Wake up. In case you forgot, you've been shot. In the arm. I need to get the bullet out. You're going to need stitches, and for this you need to take your shirts off." Dean tried shaking Sam awake but all he did was mumble and flinch away. He leaned over, the pendant of his necklace nearly hitting Sam's nose. "Dammit, Sam, don't make me undress you again."

* * *

_"Don't make me undress you again!"_

Sam couldn't suppress a gasp at Dean's words. The idea of his brother's hands taking off his clothes, slowly and seductively, cut through his sluggish brain and even succeeded in obliterating the pain for a brief second. There was nothing he wanted more than having Dean undress him...

... until he noticed the folded leather belt in Dean's hand and the medical supplies on the towel. Realization what these would be used for made all color drain from his face – if there was even any left before. 

Sam's stomach churned. Suddenly panicking, he shook his head. He wasn't ready for this! As sluggish as he'd felt a moment ago, now his heart was racing madly and he was wide awake. Then, there was the way Dean clenched his teeth; it told Sam that his brother was in pain, and he had to do something about it! 

"Dean," he whispered, "No. Let me check your ribs first."

He _needed_ to feel the firmness of Dean's body, even if it was only in bandaging the bruised ribs. "Please let me treat your injuries." 

"Besides," he tried to keep his voice steady – he was such a wuss! – "my arm isn't as bad as it looks. With a proper dressing and a good night's sleep I'll be fine in the morning. Or even in a couple of hours if you think it's better to get out of here tonight."

Dean was leaning over him and if Sam would have been standing, even without having been shot, his knees would be trembling from his brother's proximity. He could feel Dean's body heat and wanted nothing more than bury himself in these strong arms. Dean's breath ghosted over his face and he could smell the blood from the split lip over his sweat.

The intensity of Dean's eyes burning into his took Sam by surprise. Was there something Dean wasn't telling him? Maybe his brother's injuries were more severe than he'd let on? He raised a hand, reaching out when Dean suddenly pulled back. 

"No, wait, please let me care for you!"

Shit, was he actually begging?

"Dean?"

* * *

What the hell? Dean couldn't deal with the pleading tone and eyes and those hands reaching out to him. Everything in him screamed that he loved his brother so much. Sam was hurt bad, and here Dean was, all kinds of perverse thoughts flashing through his mind. It was so much like 13-year-old Sammy, who had come to him not only for an explanation of what was happening to his body, but with demands that Dean prove it was not just some freak thing that happened to Sam alone. It was unbelievable, that he not know. Dad had never told either of them anything, leaving them to their own devices. Dean had indulged Sam not just once, but too many times... had only stopped short when he realized that if it went any further, he would turn Sam over and fuck his sweet little...

No! It was just wrong! Sam had escaped to California as soon as he could to get away from the feelings Dean couldn't tamp down 100%, he was sure of that. Now that he and his brother were back in business, hunting again, Dean had what he needed, almost everything, and he could not jeopardize that. If he couldn't keep it to himself, if he slipped... well, he couldn't survive another forced separation. 

Standing right over Sam as he was, his brother was sure to notice how his dick twitched strongly in his pants. Quickly setting the belt on the bedside table, Dean crossed the room. He needed a diversion. First, he reached back and pulled the 9mm from the back of his waistband, setting it on the rickety kitchen table. He still had the .38 in his ankle holster and his knives, but the press of steel against his crack was more distressing than reassuring at the moment. 

"Nothing you can do for me, Sam, it's just bruises and a split lip." Well, almost. He confessed before Sam called him a liar. "Probably a couple of cracked ribs, too, but we both know that it's not worth the effort to tape them, only time helps." There, maybe that was letting Sam down easy enough.

His ribs wouldn't allow him a deep breath, so Dean stilled himself, picked up one of the ugly pea-soup-green chairs from under the table and carried it back to Sam's bedside, plunking it down. Then he plunked his ass down on it, and was sorry when a white-hot pain shot through his right side. Sam's eyes widened but Dean waved his hand and waited for it to pass. He was almost glad for the sickening waves, for the sight of Sam's blood was going to provoke an inappropriate reaction and Dean knew it. To that end, he made sure that his layers of shirts were pulled down far enough to cover his crotch. 

Naturally, Sam had not moved. Yeah, his eyes looked shocky, whatever else was in them. It was probably beyond Sam's ability to obey even simple commands right now. Dean feigned annoyance. He had to, for self-preservation. In his testiest voice, he said, "For the last time, Sam, get those shirts off. Or I'll deal with your inner toddler, despite the Gigantor body, and you're not going to like it."

* * *

_His inner toddler!_ Sam narrowed his eyes. Here it was again, that patronizing tone of Dean's that never failed to incite rage in him. What did his brother think he was, a twelve-year-old?

If he'd have had any blood to spare, he'd blush furiously – or get achingly hard. Or, most likely, both. When he'd been thirteen, Sam had admitted to – and to a degree feigned – innocence and ignorance regarding puberty. It had been easy to convince Dean, always there for him, into 'helping'. Until, one day, Sam had seen something in his older brother's eyes, right before Dean had abruptly stopped what they had, refusing to indulge Sam any longer. He'd felt deeply ashamed of having forced his beloved Dean into something he obviously didn't want. After suffering through the awkward distance that had come between them, he'd grasped the first opportunity to flee. It had broken his heart to be separated from the only one he loved. Then, he'd met Jess, and...

_No, not going there!_

Sam forced himself to return his thoughts to the present. The expression in Dean's eyes had changed as he waited for Sam to react and start undressing. A part of him was tempted to refuse the order he'd just been given. Then, wouldn't that be just the proof Dean needed that Sam still hadn't grown up? 

On the other hand, any move hurt like hell. If Dean undressed him, Sam wasn't sure he could take the pain. He shuddered: this would only be the beginning. Taking the bullet out... Sam clenched his teeth. Dean had the right idea about the belt to bite on...

The thought made his eyes water, and he quickly pulled his good arm over his face to hide his eyes. Dean must not know how terrified he was!

Sam had always been a quick thinker. "You know," he said desperately trying to evade the procedure, "you're absolutely right about your ribs. You're also right that only time will help. So, you really should get some sleep _now_. "

Dean probably wouldn't fall for it, but he had to try! Moving his arm off his face, he mustered all the rage he could manage by concentrating on Dean treating him like a child. "Why should I let you care for me if you refuse to be looked after!"

* * *

"Oh, please!" Dean retorted. He'd seen the flinch, and the way Sam suddenly hid his eyes. So, Sam was aware enough to fight about it – he was almost glad. That was Sam's way: dig in his heels if something was for his own good. "If you're going to be a wussy little bitch about it..." He let the words trail off, unable to vocalize a proper threat. There was little he wanted more than a shower and sleep, besides to take care of Sam's injuries, so his brother was half right. But not all the way right. He wanted even worse to take Sam in his arms and lay down with him, either to just hold him through the night or... _No, stop that, Dean!_

"Look, man. We're in the middle of nowhere. There isn't a hospital within 150 miles, so you're going to have to let me do this. You want blood poisoning or something? And anyway, do you really want to have to deal with a bunch of quacks? Bright lights, people taking your blood, a hundred questions. This isn't exactly a hunting accident. Those local yahoos from the cemetery probably have an APB out on us. We won't be able to get our asses the hell out of the tri-state area until we get you fixed up." Dean could have gone on at length, spouting weary 'logic', but for the look of hatred and disgust aimed at him.

That stung. Well, too bad. He hadn't been raised to give in to other people's feelings, even Sam's. To do so would be a shortcoming on his part. He raised an eyebrow, giving his best 'big brother' look of intimidation. As a final threat, he reached over and undid the first button on Sam's faded plaid shirt.

* * *

"This... is..." Sam took a deep breath and exploded. "Who is it that you're calling a wussy little bitch, you jerk! You, of all people, who won't even let me take a look at your ribs? Leave me alone!" He slapped Dean's hand away from his shirt and demonstratively closed the button again. 

His rage wasn't enough to help him suppress a hiss at the fiery stab that the move cost him. Shit, but Dean was right. This wound wasn't to be ignored. 

How had they come to this point, anyway? All Sam wanted was to get it over with, not fight with his brother. He knew that Dean knew how much it would hurt to get the bullet out. Maybe Sam could even hope for a comforting touch afterwards – but no, as much as he yearned for it, even if Dean offered, Sam would have to refuse.

He met Dean's gaze with smoldering eyes. Regardless how many times Dean had made him back down with this 'big brother' look, Sam wasn't going to concede defeat. It was only when he began to wonder if Dean's raised eyebrow could be an expression of concern as well as an intimidation that he lowered his eyes.

"Look, man," Sam echoed, swallowing, "just give me some time. I need a minute to wrap my head around this." He nodded toward his injured arm and winced as another lance of pain shot through him. "Meanwhile, where's our, uh, disinfectant? I might as well get a head start on getting numbed up before you..." he swallowed again despite trying to look defiant, "treat me."

* * *

Dean didn't know whether to retort that it was Sam he was calling names, or laugh when the brat slapped at him and buttoned his shirt back up. At least he wouldn't have to wrestle Sam about it, which would hurt them both more. Any move at all was making Sam hiss and flinch. Finally, he'd seen reason, and that was good enough for Dean. Letting his breath out slowly, he focused on Sam's last question. 

"There's Betadine here, alcohol wipes, too. And Lidocaine." Dean would cut Sam's clothes off him if he had to. Should have thought of that before. Neither of them had many to spare, as light as they traveled, but the sleeves of Sam's shirts and jacket were soaked through with blood and at least two layers had bullet holes in them.

Dean remembered the first time he'd been shot, and Dad had doctored him up. His wound had been in the back of the left shoulder, and he'd been scared as shit, thinking that he was going to bleed out or that he'd scream or cry in front of his father. Physical pain was to be used, not snivelled over. For him, anyway. He didn't care how Sam reacted as long as he lived to tell. Dean's mocking was just to keep moving things along, and to keep his mind out of the gutter. "Take your time. I can even shower first, if you think you can stay awake. I've still got dirt all over me." All the disinfectant in the world wouldn't matter if Dean's fingers were contaminated. At least he could clean the outside of himself, if not the inside.

Speaking of staying awake... "Did you get knocked on the head, Sam? Do you remember? You were pretty out of it earlier. And I know you haven't been sleeping. If you had been, you'd have stolen the blankets or been trying to cuddle." Oh, he shouldn't have said that. Dean's stomach did a slow roll and twisted. He should talk! How he'd clung to his side of that stupid king-sized bed, getting up in the middle of the night, even twice, to jack off in the bathroom. Morning wood could be explained. Not the constant ache between his legs, night and day.

But that was something Sam would never know, and he hoped he'd managed to keep it from his face. Grinning, Dean held out his hand. "Can you sit up? Will be easier that way. Let me help you." 

* * *

Sam's relief when Dean mentioned Lidocaine was immediately drowned out by Dean telling him that he knew his sibling hadn't been sleeping. Even soaked in cold sweat as he already was, he could feel his pores open up further. He needed a distraction, and fast.

"Of course, I haven't been sleeping. What with your nightly jogging between bed and bathroom." Sam snorted. "You know what, dude, you should really get your prostate checked out."

Sam hoped that Dean would forget about him being awake during all these nights. It looked as if he had a chance at a change of topic when Dean held out his hand to help him up. Sam knew that this was a very bad idea, but he took the hand and braced himself against the pain. Anything to take Dean's inquisitive mind off his sleeplessness.

It was worse than he'd expected. Sam couldn't suppress a gurgling noise in his throat when he tried to sit up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he managed to press out as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ride out the agony. If this was caused by moving, how bad would the actual surgery go? The Lidocaine would do no more than take the edge off unless Dean knew how to place a nerve block, which Sam was sure he didn't – he'd read up about it on the Internet after he'd had to stitch up a nasty cut in Dean's arm once.

"You know what," he wheezed when he had halfway regained his breath, "I think I'd rather do this lying down. You go take a shower – god knows you need one," he tried to joke. "As long as you leave whatever booze we have left with me. That's what I meant earlier with disinfectant, by the way."

Seeing a slightly embarrassed grin spreading on his brother's face, Sam groaned. "Oh come on. Please don't tell me we're out." The way Dean had been hitting the bottle lately, it wouldn't surprise Sam, but he had no intentions of being sober when Dean cut him open.

* * *

Oh, shit. Sam knew about his trips to the bathroom, if not what he was doing in there, which was a mercy. A light flush heated Dean's cheekbones. So totally unlike him. He never blushed. "Well, Sammy, why don't you check it yourself? ... My prostate is fine!" Dean grumped. 

But Sam probably didn't comprehend that bit of idiocy, moving again and then groaning and swearing in pain. It had to be really bad for the usually PG-rated Sam to drop the f-word. Clearly, Sam needed time to steel himself. Dean took his dig about stinking without comment. He had other uses for the bathroom right now, and it was true, besides. 

But the remark about using his stash for disinfectant, that got him on the defensive again. "Well, forgive me for my vices, Father Samuel. We can't all be so _wholesome_." Never mind his other, far less wholesome vices. Like the one he was already getting jittery about, that made his cock fill in anticipation and rank need. "There's a quarter bottle of JD. And what's in my flask." And what was in his emergency bottle in the depths of his bag, too, but he didn't mention it. 

"Fine. I'll just be... In there." Dean jerked his chin in the direction or the bathroom. "Taking a shower. Um... Call out if you need anything." Shit. He really needed to close the door and lock it, but he'd have to leave it open with Sam in the condition he was in. Just when he needed a long, noisy release. Well, too bad. Again. He'd have to settle for quick and silent. 

Dean grabbed the handy bottle of Jack from his coat pocket and thunked it down on the miniature table near Sam's head, trying to ignore the judgment in his eyes at the amount in it. "Have some. You need to get comfortably numb, like the Pink Floyd song, whatever else you think we should use it for. And I know what I'm talking about. See you in a few." Standing, Dean stopped himself short of stretching. With a shrug, he turned to go.

* * *

Sam waited until Dean ran the water before he let out a sigh. His grace period wouldn't be long, so he'd better start drinking. Slowly reaching for the bottle, he was surprised at its light weight. He could have sworn it had been full the night before. He made a mental note of it as asking Dean about this could serve as an emergency tactic if Dean came too close to digging around certain topics.

Right now, however, he had another problem besides getting as drunk as possible. 

_"Well, Sammy, why don't you check it yourself?"_

Had Dean really said that? Okay, it was something his cocksure brother would say, but of course Dean didn't have the slightest clue what it did to Sam, who suddenly found himself hardening. 

He looked around, but there were no tissues within reach. Maybe he could wipe himself off on his shirt, which was in ruins anyway, but even if he managed to undress, he'd never get his pants up again. Also, Dean had left the bathroom door open to be able to monitor Sam's noises – over the running shower, but wouldn't it just be typical for today if Dean switched the water off the very moment Sam finished? No way!

His mind must be playing tricks on him, because he thought he heard a moan from the bathroom just when he was wondering what Dean would sound like if Sam checked out his prostate. The idea of doing it should have been ridiculous; Dean was such a hetero alpha male, but now that Dean's suggestion had planted the image into his head, Sam couldn't think of anything he'd rather see than Dean at the height of his pleasure from Sam's hands.

Sam started to rub himself through his pants – and was immediately reminded by his arm why moving at all wasn't a good idea.

By the time Dean left the shower, the room was slowly spinning around Sam. He hoped it would be enough to keep him quiet during what was to come next. It was, however, not enough to keep him from staring at his brother, who had only a towel slung around his hips. Dean's face was swollen and there was a vicious bruise showing on his chest, but Sam only had eyes for the beauty of his brother's body. If only...

He moaned and, immediately, saw the concern spreading on the other's face.

"Sam..."

"It'sh... iss... 'm okay. Juss promiss me t'get it out the firs' time, will ya? Dean..." Sam wasn't ashamed for the tears in his eyes any longer – besides, he could always blame the booze. "I'm scared, man..."

* * *

In the bathroom, Dean stripped as fast as he could manage, kicked his dirty clothes into the corner, and turned on the water. It took a good two minutes before it went from tepid to a little better than lukewarm. Still, it felt heavenly. Dean grabbed the soap, watching rivulets of dirt rain off him. He paused, to listen for any sounds of distress from Sam, but he heard none. Using just lather from the soap, Dean took his cock in hand, stroking steadily while rolling his balls in the other hand. He didn't even try to suppress the imagery of his brother. Some of it was memories from their younger days. Sam's first time coming in Dean's hands for example... or his own fantasies of bending Sam over beneath him and just _taking_. Or Sam, fierce, lips snarling, on top of Dean... He squeezed and pumped as silently as possible till release spurted from him onto the tile wall. So much, he thought, unable to stifle the deep groan of completion.

Waiting a few moments for the aftershocks to settle, Dean washed his hair in the meantime and shut the water off. He dried himself carelessly, and slung the towel around his hips. In the other room again, Sam's expression told Dean that his little brother was well on his way to drunk – he was such a lightweight. The slurring of his words and the expressions that slid around his face were almost comical. Sam's inhibitions must have gone the way of the dinosaur already, because he looked Dean up and down with such heat. There was nothing wrong with the boy's sex drive, he just kept it bottled up. Although, Dean himself could attest to the amount of guilt and discomfort that came from having one's attraction be for someone off limits.

But then Sam, with tears running from his eyes, admitted his fear, and to being scared, and Dean melted. Seeing his brother hurt, it was like getting kicked in the jewels. However much shit he might give Sam later, right now, all he wanted was to comfort him, and to make it alright. His own damned eyes prickled in response. "I know... I know." Dean was by his side before he'd thought of moving, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed this time, still in his towel. "Just keep drinking, it'll be alright. I've done this before Sam, I won't miss. It'll be over before you know it."

Dean didn't mean to touch him at all beyond what was absolutely necessary, but he found himself with his hand on Sam's shoulder on the unhurt side, other palm against the side of his face. "Look at me. I'll take care of you. It's going to be alright," he murmured. The muscle in Sam's shoulder was rock-hard, locked, and cold sweat was coming off him till his clothes were damp and clinging. Oh, this was going to suck. He didn't want to hurt Sam either but he would have to, for him to get better.

"It's time, Sam." Moving to the chair again, Dean made sure all the necessary medical items were within reach. He took a long swig of Jack, grimacing at the sting on a cut inside his mouth. "You lying down for this, or do you need help sitting?" If Sam was too out of it, then Dean would take matters into his own hands. Otherwise, it was always better to give a hunter the chance to call some of the shots – even if they were your kid brother.

* * *

Sam thought he should probably come up with a snarky reply, something along the lines of, "Good that at least one of us has done this before," but he felt too miserable to speak up. It was going to happen, now.

Dean had one hand on Sam's shoulder and the other on his face. There was so much pain in his eyes that Sam immediately shut his, hating himself again for being such a coward. Dean was doing everything he could to help Sam, so why was Sam making this so hard for him? Why couldn't he steel himself, make a few stupid remarks, and get it over with? Why did he hurt his brother by showing him the pain and fear?

Sniffling and swallowing, Sam nodded. Wanting nothing more than trusting Dean, he leaned into the touch and rubbed his cheek against the coarse hand. Opening his eyes again, he whispered a slurred, "Mh, 's gonna be alrigh'..." He knew he couldn't fool his brother into thinking that he suddenly wasn't afraid any longer, but maybe he got credit for trying.

Then, there was the distance again. Maybe – probably – Dean needed it to be able to do what was necessary. Sam could have sworn that for a second, his brother didn't want to let go of him, but it might have been an alcohol-induced wishful thought. He was three sheets to the wind, the combination of drinking and blood loss had made this easy.

"Not sure I c'n sit," he confessed. If he tried to get upright, he'd either pass out, which would be a good thing, or throw up his guts all over the place, which wasn't.

"Jus' do it... I trus' you... let ya desh... decide how..."

* * *

Sam was putting himself in Dean's hands. Though he'd asked for it, insisted, Dean knew how little he deserved the unadulterated trust his brother placed in him. Sam was pretty wasted besides, totally unable to fend for himself right now. Whatever protective instincts he normally had rose up so strong that Dean was almost too blind with emotion to function for a moment. But he had to.

The last thing Sam had slurred out was that he couldn't move enough to get his clothes off, which meant that Dean would have to do it. He would cut them off, then. There was a scissors in the kit, not surgical but meant for cutting bandages and tape. Dean found it and began. He was grateful that Sam didn't watch him. Too intimate, this slow laying bare of even just one limb. Whether Sam was too drunk to keep his eyes open or was trying to psych himself up, he didn't say a word, either.

It was a shame to have to destroy the jacket; that would have to be replaced. Though he couldn't avoid it entirely, Dean tried to touch only cloth, not flesh. He cut through the layers of sleeves one at a time, till he was down to skin, flesh and gore. There was blood everywhere, most pooled around the entry wound itself; from there it had run down Sam's arm toward his hand. He'd been right before about the blood scent, struggled with it, kept it down. The bullet was embedded in the bicep. Black and greenish bruising had already spread and there was a light ring of char marks around the bullet hole, which was a gaping mess, as if the slug had turned end over end going in. This was going to be a bitch. It was in deep enough in that Dean couldn't just slice through skin – he would have to literally dig the bullet out. It killed him, because he was more than aware of the sculpted power and beauty of Sam's body, obviously bigger than his, more cut, and to have to mar it... He pulled the towel holding his makeshift surgical instruments closer.

"Sam, I'm going to pour the rest of the booze over everything now. It's gonna sting like a motherfucker. Bite down now..." Dean picked up the folded belt again and held it near Sam's mouth. He had his lips pressed together in a thin line. With Sam's eyes closed and no reaction to his directions, Dean had no choice. He held the leather directly against Sam's mouth, moving it to try to wedge his lips and teeth open. "Sam! Open your mouth."

* * *

Dean could be a real son of a bitch, but Sam knew that he could rely on his brother. Even if he'd have wanted to have a say, right now he was too out of it for being of any use. He appreciated that Dean offered to let Sam decide but Sam recognized the truth when he saw it, that he couldn't look after himself right now.

Dean's hands were steady as he began to cut the clothes off Sam. Strong and steady, and taking care of him with infinite caution, this was his brother. Although the wound throbbed with every pulse and the pain was amplified in his whole body, Sam found it easier to relax now. The alcohol didn't reduce the pain, but it was as if he suddenly didn't care as much any longer.

Then there was the concern in Dean's eyes. Clearly it bothered him to hurt Sam, and although Sam found it hard to take his eyes off these incredible hands, he closed his eyes after a long sigh and clenched his teeth, wishing that Dean's hands would touch him in a different place and a different fashion, like he had when they were both still in their teens... 

A jolt of pain made him wince. If he breathed through the pain, maybe Dean would suffer less, too. Also, he had an inkling that seeing the wound would make him feel really bad, and that would make Dean feel worse, too.

When Dean spoke to him, Sam found that he couldn't concentrate on the words. Instead, he was listening to the rich, mellow – and rough at the same time – voice. He didn't want to hear what Dean said. It was bound to be unpleasant. He wanted to stay in his nice day dream of Dean caressing him. He felt even safe because his body probably didn't have enough strength left for him to get hard...

Something nudged his lips.

_"Sam, open your mouth."_

A hot wave of desire flooded through Sam's body. He opened his eye sluggishly, and saw Dean's folded leather belt. For a moment, he'd thought... No. Of course not. This was reality, and in reality Dean wouldn't let his brother lick his dick. In reality, Dean was going to – had to – hurt him like he'd probably never been hurt before.

In a last attempt to avoid the unavoidable, he pressed his lips even closer together and shook his head.

* * *

That got a reaction, if a small one. It seemed like the only thing Sam was capable of was opening one eye; otherwise he did nothing. In the hazel depths were swirling emotions, things that Dean couldn't begin to put words to. If they hadn't been in such dire circumstances he'd have backed the hell off, like NOW, and cracked his usual jokes and insults, but instead he felt himself being drawn in. There was his leather belt against Sam's pink, soft lips. There was that need in his eye, and didn't Dean just remember all too well what that looked like. 

That was long over. It had been adolescent fooling around. Now they were men, hunters, brothers. They'd always been that. God, why did he want Sam so bad!? And, Sam still wouldn't take the belt in his teeth... Dean was going to have to do something drastic.

By the time he made up his mind, Dean was already inches from Sam's face. His features had changed some from his teenaged years – cheekbones wider, nose longer, lips thinner – but he was still Sammy and he would always be Dean's. Dean was always a decisive kisser but with Sam so hurt... A wave heat flashed through him, and Dean closed the distance. He pressed his lips lightly to Sam's, Couldn't help but suck against them, move to a better angle, open enough to slip his tongue through to the roof of Sam's mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

The moment Sam shook his head and refused to open his mouth, he knew it was childish. Bad things didn't go away if one simply ignored them. Postponing the 'surgery' wouldn't make anything better, either – quite the opposite: in addition to increasing the risk of infection, the delay would only serve to piss Dean off even more, but Sam wasn't in control any longer. He was acting on instinct. Instinct told him that putting a scalpel in his arm would hurt even more than it already did, so it was to be avoided. He squeezed his eyes shut again. Maybe the childhood spell would work after all. If you couldn't see them, they couldn't see you, right?

A second later, he felt as if he were struck by lightning. Sam's eyes flew open again as he felt the soft sensation on his lips. This couldn't be true! He gasped in shock when he realized that it was indeed Dean's lips grazing and sucking his ever so gently. When he gasped, Dean didn't hesitate to slide his tongue into Sam's mouth, and Sam let out a loud and passionate moan. His hips bucked desperate for friction against his brother's firm body that was so far away from his.

"Gods, yes," Sam groaned as he raised his good arm to pull Dean closer. It hurt like perdition, but he needed the contact. "Dean... Need you so frigging much..."

* * *

"Yes, Sammy," Dean whispered. Sam had moaned for him – moaned! – and it was not entirely in pain that time. Eagerly, Dean slid his tongue forward into the hot, whiskey-tasting mouth. He claimed every surface. Teeth, the insides of Sam's cheeks, the ridged, hollow dome of his palate, every bit, Dean hit pleasure then euphoria like zero-to-sixty, taking them through every motion possible while essentially not moving. His cock hardened fast, throbbing thick against his thigh while his towel was pushed up, cool air rustling between his legs and around his sac.

They couldn't fuck, even if Sam would allow it, not like this. Dean was at first surprised Sam didn't shove him across the room, but instead, Sam's uninjured arm rose off the bed and pulled at him, trying to get a grip on his bare skin. Dean pulled back to look Sam in the eyes.

"Want you... can't have you now, but we can feel each other, ride each other. You remember how we used to do that?" Yes, back in the early days, when Sam was squeamish about touching him. Dean broke the kiss long enough to undo Sam's belt and unzip him, muddle his jeans down just enough, pull out his heavy cock. Sam was hard as steel; his hips jumped a couple times, seeking friction. "Whoa, easy there." Quickly, Dean peeled back the ruined shirts from his brother's chest. Smooth, broad, heaving now and shining with sweat, perfect flat male nipples adorning it, Dean lapped at one, then the other. His own hips were getting away from him, the muscles wanting to flex and push.

Throwing off his towel, Dean stood up, looming over Sam for just a moment. Getting hard at the touch of a stiff breeze was a real pain sometimes, but right now, Dean could only think of how fucking great it felt, to have his cock filled out and ready, balls loaded with juice. Even better, that Sam was the same, and that they would get off together, be the cause of each other's release.

The bed creaked when Dean straddled Sam's thighs, trying not to put his weight on his brother at all. Shudders racked Sam's body, enough for Dean to be concerned if not for the all-out lust in Sam's eyes, which were narrowed and dangerous. Their balls brushed, then more, as he alighted. One knee at each of Sam's hips, Dean inched upwards and lowered himself till they were just touching between them, line of cock against line of cock. He let his weight down, little by little, watching every shift of Sam's face. Pressed together, belly to belly, taut muscles holding them snug, Dean let himself slide into that tunnel, groan ripping from his chest. 

As soon as Dean moved again, in the opposite direction, his body took over. He was thrusting, hips flexing and pulling, going as slow and gentle about it as he could. His spread toes found purchase on the drab old bedspread. Sam was like oiled sin against him. Not passive, not by a long shot, Sam flexed and rutted against him from below. So hard! Sam's cock felt so hot against his, the slight shifts of their skin setting off chain reactions of want aching through his body. But he needed Sam's mouth again, on his, not in a snarl beyond his reach. 

"So good, Sam... feel how bad I want you?" Dean panted. His hips rocked steadily, taking and giving slick friction, though their power was still mostly muted. Sam's tongue darted out, and it was almost more than Dean could take. His voice went gravel-pit rough as he growled out, deep in need, "Kiss me again, Sammy... need you... gonna cum all over you, baby."

* * *

This must be a dream! How else could he feel Dean's mouth on him, greedily devouring his lips; his brother would never do this in reality. Dean would probably beat the shit out of him if Sam as much as hinted at his secret desires. The still-cognitive part of his brain which tried to warn him that the sudden lack of pain in his arm was caused by endorphins rather than sleep was easily shut up by his need. No, this was a dream, and he was going to make the most out of it.

If he had any inhibitions left, they fled as soon as Dean freed Sam's dick. Only three minutes ago, he couldn't have gotten hard, so here was more proof that it was a dream. _Or you want it to be a dream,_ his brain provided, not at all helpfully. Dean lapped at his chest and he let out a needy groan. Dream or not, he wouldn't, couldn't back away.

Then Dean was standing over him in his naked glory, his erection hard and pulsing. Sam's mind flashed back to their adolescence. When he'd experienced that not only did his cock swell – it had done that since he could remember – but there was this incredible yearning along with the hardness, he'd asked his brother for help. Dean, four years older, knew everything and was willing to share. Although Sam knew what was happening to his body, he'd been self-conscious about it, and even afraid: the stories told by other boys at school were probably just that, stories, but he'd be mortified if he woke up with a hairy palm one day. 

So, Dean had had to answer a lot of questions. After Sam had, to his utter astonishment and some initial embarrassment from his brother's side, found out that Dean jacked off regularly – in the showers adjacent to the rooms they shared, and without growing hairy palms – he'd demanded that Dean show him, stroke himself and prove that it was indeed as good and harmless as he'd told Sam. Eventually, Dean had agreed. His body and eyes had radiated the same need and desire Sam could see in his brother now.

"Yes, yes," Sam moaned wantonly, thrusting his hips in vain, desperate for purchase. Then, Dean was straddling him, slowly pressing down on him until Sam thought he'd blow immediately. Dean leaned forward, taking his weight off Sam and putting it on their dicks, rubbing against each other and their firm abdominal muscles. Dean let out a groan that made Sam's balls pull up and then they were rutting, thrusting, their need and desperation taking over.

Their juices mingled and eased the friction by just the right amount. Otherwise, Sam knew, it would have been over already, at least for him. Judging by Dean's noises, his brother wasn't far behind. 

Then, Dean demanded, begged for Sam to kiss him. Sam opened his mouth in invitation. This time, it wasn't a probing but a bruising kiss. Their teeth and tongues met, trying to get as close as possible while both men kept thrusting hard, groaning and snarling.

_"Sammy... need you... gonna cum all over you, baby."_

The words bounced around in Sam's head, and he felt how much Dean needed him.

Struggling to hold back, not wanting to let go without his brother, Sam broke the kiss for a moment. "Do it, Dean..." He could feel the flood rising in his balls. Sam's eyes locked with Dean's, watched them widen with this unique expression of astonishment that he'd always associate with Dean reaching his peak.

"Cum for me, love!"

* * *

They were wet between them now. Sam had always leaked a lot, so much that when he was an adolescent he was afraid he had peed a little, and Dean was so turned on now that precum flowed out of him in steady trickles. It was exquisite, perfect; only one thing would be any better and they hadn't done that, not yet. Sam writhed and twisted, thrusting upwards, his kisses willing and urgent.

It was a sharp contrast from the shy and easily embarrassed kid brother who accepted Dean's impending messy orgasm and turned it right back, demanding that he _Do it_. Never having experienced Sam's fully-grown, adult sexuality hands-on, Dean reeled from the shock of adrenaline and testosterone. He gripped harder with his knees, sliding his tongue deep into Sam's mouth again. There was fire in Sam's eyes – he wasn't only allowing this, he needed just as bad. Dean was already shuddering, balls tightening to the point of pain, and he pushed for it, mouth on Sam's clamping hard, then going slack as it hit. "NNnnnuuuugh... Sammy, yyeeeesssss..." 

The tidal wave of his cum and release burst free, Dean's hips rocking, ass clenching, abs spasming as he filled the non-existent space between them with shot after shot of jizz. That was what they'd called it as teens, what he'd helped Sam coax from his needy young body awake, so that he could sleep without the fear... Sam... There was something missing... "Oh god I love you Sam... Cum with me!"

* * *

When Dean's body froze, Sam knew that this was it. He'd never forget what his brother was like at the height of his passion. For years, he'd treasured his memories of these brief moments when Dean hit the brink. His breathing hitched as the memories now made it into his dream. How was it possible that this could feel so real! He felt Dean's body frantically rubbing and pressing against his, Dean's lips and tongue, his breath that came in short gasps. Then, his brother pressed even closer, stilling for a fraction of a second before he convulsed against Sam and made this incredible noise.

"Nnnnuuuugh..." Sam's deep groan matched Dean's as his cock was suddenly sliding in a lot more wetness than before. Dean's seed splashed between their bodies, stoking his need. Dean howled something, and then Sam was there, cumming messily and moaning into Dean's mouth, his hips lifting off the mattress, his body trying to crawl into Dean's. The urge to get even closer to Dean became unbearable. Sam moved both his hands on his brother's butt and pulled him down with as much force as he could muster.

The shock wave of his ultimate pleasure was immediately followed by a shock wave of pain when the nerves in his injured arm sent out a mass of fiery impulses. Sam's brain reacted a second later: the last thing he heard before he blacked out was Dean shouting that he loved him. 

Then, nothing.

* * *

Just as Dean's orgasm was hitting full roar, both of them slipping faster through his pool of cum, Sam got his hands – both hands – clutched around Dean's ass and pulled him in harder. Below, the long lines of Sam's body tightened; Dean could sense, even in the throes of the highest rush he'd felt in years, that his brother was about to lose it. His hips moved like he was _fucking_. The gasps that came out of him... it was nothing like Dean had heard. Ever. Shuddering, breathless, pure sex. And then when he came....

More hot seed exploded between them, as high as Dean's breastbone where some of it spurted during their restless writhing. Color high on his cheekbones, mouth wide, Sam gave in, that was the only way he could have described the act. Dean only wished he had more to give; when Sam moaned from low in his chest, a sound that disconcertingly echoed Dean's groan of release just seconds before, a second wave hit him. He could only thrust into their combined mess while his cock tried to spit, coming up dry.

Then it was over. Really over. For a few moments, he could see nothing but white, hear nothing but the buzzing in his ears. But soon, Dean came back to the realization of what had just happened. He was naked. Crouched, no, straddling Sam's unconscious – what? When had that happened? There was a sticky goo of semen threatening to glue them together, and here he was, lying in it. On Sam. His brother. Who was passed out, whether from pleasure, his injuries, or thanks to the alcohol, Dean didn't have the luxury to know. He peeled himself away and moved to the chair, running his hands through his short hair. As best he could, he cleaned them off with his abandoned towel. And he couldn't help but notice, despite the dirt and the blood, how fucking fine his brother was, and how his body had developed beyond his notice into the epitome of male beauty... and how damned beautiful he looked smeared in sweat and cum.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed himself. He'd called out his love during his orgasm. Had Sam heard him? The thought did nothing to ease the trembling of his hands, now, when it was absolutely crucial that he be steady. He was thankful just then that Sam was out cold. If his younger brother tried to play it off, or worse yet, wanted to talk about it at length, and Sammy could go on for _days_ , Dean wasn't sure how he'd handle it. He just wanted something simple. Love, sex, belonging. But it wasn't. Waiting till he was calmer, Dean threw on clean boxers and jeans, and picked up the bottle.

There wasn't much left in the liter bottle, so Dean went back to his bag and dug out his emergency stash as well. During their... session? ... the scab on Sam's arm had reopened. He'd already lost blood and there would be more soon. Best get it over with. Dean pulled the towel with his instruments, as such, closer again, rearranging the jumble their frottage had caused. Once again, he laid bare the wound. A few threads of the torn and cut flannel were sticking in the blood, and he eased them free.

It had seemed like such a good idea. He'd been so fucking horny, so hard for his brother, and Sam hadn't protested, not once. Sam was always the sensible one, always with the reason and logic and, when he was in a pissy mood, the rain on his parade. Hell, he'd been fighting tooth and claw about who was going to get 'treated' just minutes before... Could he have carried this all these years, as Dean had? No. No way. No way in hell. Not Sam. He'd had his girl back in Cali, they were going to get married, which proved just how wrong he was. Dean waited a beat, bottle in hand, and then dumped the amber liquid over Sam's upper arm.

* * *

_"Yaaaarghhh..."_

Sam woke to the sound of someone screaming. By the time he realized it was him, he was already half-way jumping up from the bed. The agony that ripped through his body from moving was so strong that he couldn't even breathe in for another scream. 

Dean was standing next to the bed, the empty JD bottle in his hand, and staring at him with wide eyes. Sam felt that he was about to swoon. He sank back on the bed, sitting against the headboard.

"Dean," he gasped, "help... hurts so fucking much..."

* * *

Dean's first instinct was to throw a hard right hook and knock Sam out. But he didn't need a concussion on top of his other injury, and besides, there was no guarantee he'd stay out. Now that Dean's endorphin rush was wearing off, he noticed the bone pain in his ribs again, and how fucking tired he was. 

Back when he wasn't even a teen yet, Dad had taught him, or made him, learn to deal with pain. Something in him was pissed at their father for always taking it easier on Sam. Maybe he was younger, but he should have had some lessons later. Fine, Sam had never been unlucky enough to get himself shot before, but still. "Sshhh... Yelling gets you nothing but a sore throat." He put one hand on Sam's, who had bolted upright and skittered back to the headboard, shoulder, bracing him against the pine boards. Although he couldn't be sure Sam was all there, Dean looked into his eyes steadily, waiting till Sam stopped looking like a frightened rabbit and stared back at him before continuing. 

"Accept the pain. Ride it. Be still. And bite on this. Do it, Sam, you'll need it." And he picked up his belt again. If Sam didn't cooperate, he'd have to hold him down, and that belt was still going between his teeth. Suddenly Dean felt eighty years old, and he sighed. 

* * *

Not quite sure what had happened just now, Sam tried to ignore the pain – without much success – while listening to Dean's instructions. For some reason, his brother seemed mightily pissed off with him. Usually, Dean had good reasons to be pissed off with him, so...

Sam hung his head as it returned to him that he'd gotten himself injured, shot, on the job, and that the bullet was still lodged in his arm. Dean looked exhausted and he had a huge bruise on his chest – which he refused to let Sam take a look at. Apparently, Dean was trying to treat Sam and Sam wasn't cooperating the way Dean expected him to. The wound in Sam's arm burned and throbbed, and he had to clench his teeth in order to not hiss loudly from the pain. As much as he wished he wasn't such a coward, Sam knew he'd let his brother down, and he hated himself for it.

"'M sorry," he muttered. "I'll try to be good, just not sure if I can... Can't you tie me down or something?" 

* * *

_"Can't you tie me down or something?"_

At first Dean wasn't sure he heard correctly. Was Sam trying to be cute? Or was it fear? He couldn't process it anymore. Eyelids half-mast, Dean blinked sluggishly, trying to think of an answer. "Uh... There's rope in here. No handcuffs. Nothing to tie either to." In the trunk, sure, but he wasn't going outside. So, just the facts. Nothing about making his brother helpless while he had his way. No. Just how to keep him from moving while Dean dug into his flesh with surgical steel. 

"I can't believe this," Dean muttered to himself. He'd already tried three or four times to get this going and he was reaching the end of his tether. "I'd let you scream, but the neighbors might call the cops, and that's the last thing we need. Or, you could bite off your own tongue from thrashing, swallow it, and choke to death. Or, there's wiggling around like a bitch so much I hit an artery and you bleed out. Sound like fun?" 

Not waiting for a response, Dean bulled on. This was getting to be so much bullshit. "So either you lie still and bite down on this like a good little boy, or... Or... I'll have to pin you down, myself." He was starting to think that was exactly what Sam wanted, but that could be his fried, fuck-up brain. "You have five seconds to decide... Four..." 

* * *

Uh-oh, Sam could see the steel in Dean's eyes. This look was something one didn't ignore. Neither were the words he used. Sam tried to think of a way out, but his sluggish brain wouldn't cooperate any more than his body.

"Three..."

"No, no, wait, I..." Sam felt a wave of guilt crash through him. His brother was injured, too, and he looked as if he was holding on only by a straw. "Dean!"

"Two..." Steel in the voice, too.

His head was spinning and he felt sick in his stomach. Sam was shaking with cold and maybe something else; he was beyond the point of analyzing. Hadn't his mind just played a trick on him by sending him an erotic dream with Dean? Certainly not the same Dean who was looming over him now, threatening to pin him down.

"One."

Dean hated him, this much was clear. But Dean also cared for him. If he pinned Sam down it was only for his own good to protect him from aggravating his wound. Also, Dean was always so warm... Sam closed his eyes so that his brother couldn't see the tears that once again formed in his eyes. 

"Ze-"

"Do it."

* * *

_Do it._ Ah, hell. Why did he have to say it like _that_ again? Dean was having serious flashbacks to a few minutes ago, and his dick twitched feebly in his boxers. _No,_ he told it. Sam was finally seeing sense and he was going to take him at his word.

"Alright," Dean replied in a tight voice. He walked around to the foot of the bed and pulled on Sam's feet, forcing him onto his back. That was the only way Dean would be able to hold him down at that point – put his full weight on him. "I'm going to use Betadine to sterilize the wound," he told Sam. "That won't sting, at least. Then, Lidocaine, but that will only help for the first couple layers of skin." They had a couple pairs of gloves left in sealed packets, and he helped himself to one, not opening it yet. There was also sealed gauze and cotton, and he opened some of those. Dean opened the lids on both bottles, too, and left them open.

Next, Dean dabbed on the yellow-brown Betadine. While it was true that it didn't sting, it would hurt Sam just to be touched, and he did it as gently as he could, but he knew by the hitches in Sam's breath that it wasn't pleasant. The Lidocaine came next, with basically the same approach. He gave it a couple of minutes to kick in, capping the bottles and putting them out of arm's reach, while he waited. He wished he dared touch Sam in some comforting way, maybe stroke his hair. But despite earlier, his bravery in that area was gone; he didn't think he could take it if Sam pushed him away.

Instead, Dean took his time unpeeling the paper wrapping off the gloves, and wiggled his fingers into them. Just for shits and giggles, he snapped the second around his wrist. He was a little past totally sane by now, anyway. Quickly, he stood, climbed stiffly onto the bed, and straddled Sam's chest. Damn, the hard male body under his butt, he took one second to indulge his senses, and then Dean whispered, "Sorry, Sammy," and pinned Sam's wounded arm down at the elbow with his knee. Then he picked up the scalpel.

* * *

Sam tried not to flinch when Dean applied the Betadine and Lidocaine. Even the slightest touch hurt, but he was proud to not make a sound. He had no illusions that he'd be less successful staying quiet later, but for now it wasn't too bad.

Dean had helped him laying down flat on his back again – by unceremoniously pulling at his feet. Despite the pain, it made Sam want to giggle. Then, Dean made show out of snapping one of the latex gloves on, and Sam found that hilarious, too. Apparently, his brain had finally caught up with the booze and the blood loss, but when Dean raised his eyebrows and looked at him closely, Sam swallowed hard at the worry in his brother's eyes.

When had Dean pushed his folded leather belt into Sam's mouth? Suddenly, he was straddling Sam, holding him down with his body, the scalpel in his hand. A whispered "Sorry, Sammy," and Sam stiffened and bucked. This time, he wasn't proud for not screaming because it wasn't his decision; his lungs were empty. Dean withdrew the gleaming steel and Sam took a breath. When Dean made the second incision to gain access to the bullet, Sam's head thrashed. Unable to move under the crushing force of Dean's body weight, he screamed into the leather.

_"I've done this before Sam, I won't miss. It'll be over before you know it."_

Sam knew that this was only the beginning. The real pain would start once Dean was digging for the bullet, trying to coax it out. Dean put the scalpel aside and reached for the tweezers. 

Suddenly, Sam was afraid. To his surprise, it wasn't the pain he feared as much as that Dean might indeed hit an artery – or that by removing the bullet he might take the pressure off an already severed artery – and Sam would bleed out. Oh, sure, Dean could try a tourniquet, but the position of the wound and the distance to the nearest hospital suggested there was a fair chance Sam might not survive this. 

No! He couldn't die! Not without telling Dean... The strength of his emotions would probably send him back as a spirit, and then Dean would have to hunt him down... A shudder went through Sam's body. The belt was firmly wedged between his teeth and with his arms pinned down, he couldn't remove it. 

Dean's eyes met his, filled with worry and something Sam read as determination to keep him safe. He nodded, conveying his brother the permission to continue, then pressed out around the belt, "I love you."

* * *

It was one of those times where Dean's brain went off somewhere else and watched from the sidelines. Sure, he was physically present in his body, his hands were doing the things they needed to do. It just... wasn't him. He _watched_ himself pick up the scalpel and make the first cut. Watched the blood well up, watched his brother's eyes glaze, then refocus and seek him out. All he could do was try to reassure him that he'd done this before, and hope that it was enough to give Sam any comfort at all.

Still the fear was coming of Sam in waves, different than before, Dean thought. It was obvious now that Sam could handle the pain involved. It was skin and muscle being cut; it wasn't as if Dean had to dig around in Sam's guts. Something else was making his little brother tenser than ever. But he couldn't stop now. Making a second cut, at an angle to the first and deeper, Dean tapped metal and went no deeper. It wouldn't do to sever an important artery; if he hit the brachial, Sam could very well bleed out.

Again, Dean _watched_ himself. His gloved hand set the bloody scalpel down. Picked up the tweezers. No, too small. He'd have to use their one pair of forceps. Now he would have to be steady, get it on the first try if he could. Jolting him out of his reverie, Sam made a noise through the belt, as if he were trying to speak. Of course it was unintelligible, "Rrrye rrruh rrroo." Dean tried for several seconds to decipher the sounds.

If he hadn't known, one look into Sam's hazel eyes told him. He looked utterly gutted. It clicked. _I love you._ Why would Sam be telling him this right now, in the middle of this nightmare of a crime scene gone wrong, about to get worse if he screwed up? Something tugged at the back of his mind. Of course Sam knew he loved him... didn't he? Hadn't he told him... sometime?

"Of course you do, Sammy. I know. We're brothers, family." It was one of the things that was just fact. Okay, so maybe what had happened between them when they were young, or even what had happened twenty minutes ago were not exactly normal, but hardly anyone else lived their kind of lives, which were about as far from normal as things got. "We can talk about it later." And he shifted, the pain on his right side getting to him enough that it was distracting. "Have to get this done. I'm not going to be any good much longer."

With that, Dean separated himself as he had before, watched his knee come down harder on Sam's bleeding arm, watched himself insert the tongs of the forceps into the wound as carefully as possible, trying to grip the bullet. It was slippery in there. A tight fit even with the cuts he had made. Being that the casing was unbending and round, the forceps kept slipping off when he tried to grip. "Son of a bitch! Sam, I'll have to make another cut or pull this bitch out sideways."

Below him, Sam was starting to shake. Dean sent one hair-brained thought off in the direction of Magic Fingers and made the decision for him. Not quite jabbing with the forceps, but using more force than before, Dean was able to clamp them down further back on the casing, enough that this time, the slight inner serrations holding on. A minute later, it was out. Dean held the bullet up to the light, victorious. "Look at that, Sam, huh!"

Then he looked down to gauge the reaction. Admiration? Nausea? Relief? Dean's eyes skittered past Sam's face on the way to the bright red blood oozing out from his arm. Too much, Dean thought. Throwing the forceps still clamped around the bloody casing on the nightstand, he grabbed gauze and pushed down hard on the wound, keeping the flat of his hand over it and using his body weight in that direction. "Dammit! Don't you dare, Sammy!" 

* * *

_"Of course you do, Sammy. I know. We're brothers, family."_

No, Sam wanted to shout, desperate to tell Dean about his real feelings that had nothing to do with family ties – quite the opposite. However, Dean had taken his time to unscramble Sam's declaration of love, and giving an explanation would require removing the gag. Dean had already been pissed off enough when Sam had tried to stall earlier, so this wasn't an option.

_"We can talk about it later."_

Sam's mind froze. What if there was no later? No, he _had_ to tell Dean now, but how?

_"Have to get this done. I'm not going to be any good much longer."_

Watching Dean flinch when he increased the pressure on Sam's arm, Sam narrowed his eyes. So Dean was injured worse than he'd let on! He'd known it! Of course, Dean would deny that he was hurting.

He couldn't pursue either of his worries any longer as Dean went to work again. Screaming into the belt, Sam felt his vision turn grey. Making the cuts had hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing compared to what it felt like when Dean tried to get a grip on the bullet. After three attempts, Sam had exhausted all his energy fighting against Dean's unbreakable hold and screaming himself hoarse. Bile was rising from his stomach and his whole body was shaking. If Dean tried again, Sam was sure he'd pass out – or rather, he feared that he wouldn't pass out; unconsciousness would be a blessing right now.

_"Son of a bitch! Sam, I'll have to make another cut or pull this bitch out sideways."_

"No! Please! I can't take any more! Please, Dean! Stop!" Sam cried and whimpered around the belt. It didn't matter that Dean wouldn't understand the words. There was no mistaking the meaning.

He saw Dean setting his jaw and the pain started anew, worse than ever, as Dean pushed the forceps in deeper. Sam screamed again, bucking against the restraining body on top of him. Then the nausea became too much. Gagging against the bile, Sam noticed the victorious tone of his brother's voice. So, the bullet must have come out, then, but it didn't hurt any less.

The victory in Dean's voice turned to worry. Sam watched Dean press gauze onto the wound, hard. The agony hit him a second later, and this time he couldn't keep the bile down. He began to vomit, and suddenly his nose was blocked with vile fluid. With Dean's belt in his mouth, Sam found that he couldn't breathe any longer. He should have panicked at the discovery, but most of him felt nothing but relief. Dead men didn't feel pain.

If only he could have told Dean of his love...

The world turned black.

* * *

The ringing in his ears stopped. No, not ringing, Dean realized belatedly. That had been Sam screaming behind the belt. Well, he wasn't any longer. Sam's face was ghost-white and sweaty with a greenish tinge. His chest hitched hard under Dean, then again; not only was Sam not vocalizing anything, Dean realized – he was gagging behind the belt. The distinct odor of vomit hit Dean's nostrils. 

Ripping the leather strip from between Sam's teeth, Dean scrambled off him, scattering various items from the medical kit everywhere. He was about half a second from panicking. Sam needed steady pressure on his wound, but he also needed not to die choking on puke. Just the smell brought up bile into Dean's mouth. He made his mind up – ABC's – airway came first. Rolling Sam onto his side, Dean tried to turn his brother's face so that he wouldn't inhale any stomach contents, but not get his face in it. 

Sam heaved again, bringing up another wave of sick. It would clear out any from before, at least. If he'd been able, Dean would have hauled Sam to the bathroom then and there, but there was no way. So he would have to try to restrict the mess to as small an area as possible. Sam's shirt was already ruined. There was some slimy bile on Dean's jeans now, too, and it had got in Sam's hair. How much did that boy have in his stomach? Dean knew though, that it could be empty and his body might still try to eject more. He shook his head. Poor kid. Sam took a ragged breath, heaved again, and finally seemed to stop. At least he was breathing. Performing CPR on someone, even Sammy, with that taste... It would have pushed Dean's limits, although he knew very well that he'd have done it if he had to, to save Sam's life. 

"Always the drama queen, Sam," Dean muttered, mostly to himself. As kids, Sam was the one with the touchy belly, but he wouldn't admit it till he was already mid-vomit and he would never stay still while he puked. Dean remembered himself bitching about that stink in the Impala at least a couple times a year, and Dad told him to shut up and deal with it. Bad memories. All he could do here and now... Groaning, Dean pulled Sam's lax form away from the puddle. He would need to strip the bed, it looked like, and roll everything into the already disgusting and bloody covers. "I'm going to have to strip you." He looked down. Yuck. "Myself, too. And we're going to have to share a bed. I'm not sleeping in _that_." 

* * *

When Sam opened his eyes, he was disoriented. His arm was throbbing, as was his head, and his mouth felt parched. He smelled and tasted vomit over alcohol. His body felt as if he didn't have any bones in him.

Sam groaned. This had to be the worst case of hangover he'd ever had. 

Apparently, Dean thought so, too. He was sitting on the bed next to Sam, looking him over with a worried expression in his eyes. One of them was almost swollen shut. There was more than just worry in Dean's eyes, actually, he looked terrified.

Blinking, Sam tried to speak, but found that his voice wouldn't obey him. His eyes moved from Dean's face to his chest, and he dry-swallowed. His brother was sporting an ugly bruise on his chest. From his own experience, Sam knew that there was likely a cracked rib or two underneath. What had happened?

Looking down his own body, Sam noticed that his chest was naked as well. A quick glance to his brother showed that Dean was wearing boxers. Sam wasn't sure if he was naked under the blanket that was pulled up to his waist, but when he saw the dressing on his left arm, he suddenly felt the cold hit his body.

Right, he'd been shot, and Dean had carved the bullet out of him. Sam had been sick, and after that he remembered nothing. Before, however, he vaguely remembered having an extremely erotic dream – with his brother! He thought he could detect a faint scent of semen in the air, but surely this must be a hallucination. Dean would never...

_"You almost told him your secret."_

Sam's heart skipped a beat. He'd cried out his love for his brother when he'd been convinced he was going to die. He was lucky that Dean had interpreted his declaration as brotherly love. He shivered. Otherwise, Dean would never look at him with so much love – affection – behind the worry in his eyes.

He cleared his throat and smiled weakly. It took all the energy he could muster.

"Hi."

* * *

It had been a major struggle to move Sam's dead weight from one bed to the other. Dean got him stripped to his boxer briefs and sat him up, got a shoulder under one of his arms, and in one almighty heave that almost made him yell in pain from the pressure on his chest, transferred Sam to the clean bed and threw the covers over his lower half. Then Dean rolled all the clothes and bedding together and stashed it in the far corner of the room. He was breathing hard, so he sat to take a short rest and check on his brother. 

Sam looked so young and vulnerable, despite the fact that he had four inches and twenty pounds on Dean. But then, he never would get over his big-brotherly protectiveness, if Dean was honest with himself. Sam's face was smooth in sleep, lashes resting against his sharp cheekbones, mouth slightly open, pink lips relaxed and not in their usual tight line. Not snarling either, like when he told Dean off for being an idiot, and not like earlier, when... when... shit. Dean had molested his brother when he was in no position to say no. And Sammy hadn't said no, had participated basically with no holds barred... what did that even mean?

Sometimes, no, a lot more than that, Dean worried about Sam being kind of a prude. He didn't date, really. Sam never talked about that kind of thing, but Dean was willing to bet that he'd never been with a woman before Jess, other than the girl Dean had paired him with when he was 15. Yeah, he'd hooked up with Jess... probably for the purpose of getting married, starting a family. A young attorney would have to be respectable. Since then, there had been that hot art dealer, but no sex with that. Poor kid. He must have needed it so bad. At least Dean had been able to give him some comfort, in the middle of a hugely painful and traumatic event. He just hoped Sam wouldn't hate him for it later.

Sam opened his eyes about then. Dean couldn't look away. "Hi," his brother said, in a small voice like his throat was bone-dry.

"Hi, yourself." Dean's usual bluster took over. "Gave me a scare, Sammy. Got the bullet out. You bled like a stuck pig, then you were sick all over both of us." Half of his mouth turned up in the corner. "I think you'll live."

Sam seemed to be at a loss for words. Of course he was – weakened from fatigue, pain, blood loss... "Do you need anything? Water? Yeah, you should have water. We have a couple doses of antibiotics left. I'll get them – you'll need them to keep any infection at bay." Dean made to get up again.

* * *

_"I think you'll live."_

Dean's dry humor would never fail to cheer Sam up. His smile widened. "I'm glad to hear that." He couldn't suppress a yawn. 

"Dean..." Sam turned serious and looked into his brother's eyes with fierce intensity. "Sorry for being such a pain earlier." He looked down, slightly embarrassed. "Thank you for putting up with me. And for... getting the bullet out." He shuddered.

"As for is there anything I'd like, there's water, and do we have any horse pills for pain?" It wasn't likely, but it never hurt to ask. "Then again, I'm knackered, so I might even sleep without them."

A mix between defiance and teasing crept into his eyes. "By the way, about what you said earlier, it isn't me who keeps stealing the blanket or trying to cuddle." He winked.

* * *

Well, Sam was aware enough to talk now, which was a good sign. Sure that he was going to have yet another round of the same fight on his hands, Dean was relieved that his brother actually asked for meds. "Yeah, man. I'll get it for you. We have a couple of Percocets." 

Before he could move, Sam made a crack about cuddling and covers-stealing, implying it was Dean who did that. No way. At least, not when they were younger. Sam had clung to him like a drowning man to a piece of lumber in a storm when he... No, that was a decade past. "...You, you're the cuddler!" Dean retorted belatedly. Lame! If he'd been more than 25 percent conscious, he'd have had a snappy reply. 

Before Sam could dig at him again, Dean rustled through the medical kit case and then limped to the bathroom for water, filling two plastic cups he found, drinking one down himself, and refilling it. He made sure to set them down before sitting next to Sam on the bed again, or he'd have spilled. He was shaky enough. "Here you are, Sam." He shook one each of the pain-killers and antibiotics into his palm, which he held out. Sam tipped them into his mouth, and Dean passed him a glass of water. "Tastes like chlorine, but drink up. You need the hydration. Just don't piss the bed!"

Dean snorted at the look on Sam's face. When his brother had swallowed the drugs and water, Dean switched off the light, and made his way around to the far side of the bed. They had tucked in all the sheets, which he cursed about, but he finally was able to slide in. "If you need anything, Sam, if something feels off, wake me up. Otherwise, I'm going to be out in two seconds." Dean could hear his voice slur the last words. So help him, he was _not_ cuddling – he wiggled backwards until the warmth of Sam's long back was flush against his, and then he was asleep. 

* * *

For a moment, Sam felt tempted to continue the cuddling-or-not discussion – which Dean had started, after all – but then he shrugged it off, deciding he was too tired, they both were. The topic was bound to come up again eventually, and he was in no shape to win the argument anyway.

Dean returned from the bathroom with a cup of water and his pills and helped him drink without spilling. This was quite an achievement with Sam pretty much flat on his back and unwilling to move. When Sam saw that the dark rings under his brother's eyes were not only due to the bruising but also betrayed his exhaustion, Sam was glad that he had shut up about the cuddling.

"Thank you," he whispered and Dean smiled at him fondly. Just when Sam was thinking Dean would reach out and ruffle his hair as he'd done when Sam was little, Dean warned him not to piss the bed. Narrowing his eyes dangerously, Sam was about to retort but bit his reply back at the last second.

There'd been a time when Sam was nine and Dean thirteen that Dad and Dean had returned from a hunt that had gone very wrong. Sam had heard Dad and Bobby arguing that Dad shouldn't have taken Dean along, then Dad had told him, Sam, to watch over his brother, before he'd left with Bobby to take care of some unfinished business. Never before had Dad charged Sam with looking after his older brother. Sam had been incredibly proud – and scared of screwing up as he was sure Dad expected him to. 

Dean didn't look hurt. He hadn't told Sam what had happened; all he wanted was to be left alone and sleep. Later that night, Sam had woken from Dean crying out in his sleep. His brother hadn't recognized him at first when Sam had tried to wake him. Dean had been terrified by a nightmare resulting from whatever they'd encountered during the hunt. He'd also wet the bed, something that had never happened before. Sam, still clueless what was going on, had promised to Dean that he wouldn't tell Dad, then he'd offered his brother to share Sam's bed. 

Dean had gratefully accepted the offer. That night, he'd clung to Sam, shaking in fear of something he refused to speak about.

Even now, Sam had no idea what had caused this most extreme fear he'd ever seen in Dean. Whatever it was, reminding him that he, not Sam, had peed the bed back then would only serve to bring back bad memories. He was glad that he'd kept his mouth shut.

Dean laid down and was out immediately after instructing Sam to wake him if he needed anything. Their backs touched, and Sam made a mental note to bring this up in the morning – it was Dean who'd wiggled so close, but Sam leaned back against him, trying to maximize the contact.

The Percocet took some time to kick in and now that everything was over, Sam felt the cold stronger. It had apparently settled in his bones. He bit his lip. If he wrapped himself up in the blanket he might get warmer, but it would get him another crack from Dean about blanket-hogging. Also, he feared that it wouldn't be enough. 

A few minutes later, he was shaking so hard that not even the thought of Dean ridiculing him for cuddling was scary anymore. He needed to get warm. Unfortunately, he could only lie on his right arm, which made his plan somewhat complicated: with Dean on his left side, he'd have to get Dean to cuddle up against Sam. This wasn't going to be appreciated.

Sam pressed back against his sleeping brother.

"Dean. _Dean._ "

There was a grunt from behind him.

"Dean, I need you to keep me warm. Please help me out here?"

* * *

_"Dean, I need you to keep me warm. Please help me out here?"_

Despite having woken him at need, Sam's tone was questioning, as if he expected a refusal. Dean's sluggish brain processed the request. Neither of them had pajamas; they slept in their clothes or underwear. They had the same amount of blankets, and there were no more to spare. Dean was well-versed in survivalist methods; so was Sam. Body warmth was best generated and conserved between two bodies, skin to skin.

"Alright, Sam," Dean mumbled. He turned onto his other side, so that he was spooning behind Sam. Any momentary irritation was gone the second he sensed his brother's clammy, cold skin and the fact that he was shivering hard enough to rattle his teeth. It was a typical side affect to shock and blood loss, and their room wasn't exactly the warmest. He would probably regret this in the morning. But if Sam gave him shit about it, well, he'd asked for it. And it was a necessary intervention. 

Dean pressed his chest and stomach against Sam's back, and slid his arm around his middle, careful not to touch Sam's injured arm. He moved his legs up as well, till his thighs and shins touched the backs of Sam's thighs, and his calves. For a long moment, he hesitated, before allowing his hips to relax flush with Sam's ass. Not like he was even capable right now, so Dean didn't allow himself to think about the possible fallout in the morning. They would have to be up and out of the state by dawn, anyway. Once again, he let himself sink into oblivion. 

* * *

Dean was hot as a furnace. Sam's befuddled mind suddenly registered that his brother hadn't denied his request but that Dean was actually spooning him. He had no idea how they'd gotten there, but the warmth engulfing him felt heavenly. 

With Dean wrapped around him and the Percocet finally dulling the pain, Sam's exhausted body gave in to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam slowly woke up with one of the worst headaches he'd ever had. Something with nasty, pointed little teeth was gnawing on his upper arm. He was sweating and shivering with cold at the same time, which didn't make any sense. How could he be so cold when there was a hot body pressing against his back? _A hot body – with an erection!_

Promptly wide awake, the events from the night before fell back into place. Salting and burning the corpse. Being hunted by the cops. Him getting shot, and Dean trying to get the bullet out. And then... 

The sudden heat flush had nothing to do with the warmth from Dean spooning him. They had... Or had they? They couldn't have, this had to have been a dream, Dean would never...

Sam felt his brother moving behind him. If they _had_ , Dean waking up with a boner nestled against Sam's butt might lead to unwelcome questions. Sam was surprised at himself. Usually, he'd feel the urge to talk things through, but if it had been more than a fevered dream, this was a can of worms he'd never be able to close again. 

He tried to lie still so that Dean would continue sleeping, hoping that so would he, Sam. Of course, it didn't work. Listening to his body, Sam felt the throbbing in his arm and head increasing. He felt dizzy and he was parched despite the noxious taste in his mouth. And the sweating and shivering increased with every passing minute.

Sam gritted his teeth. Dean had been on the verge of collapsing last night, too. His brother had caught a few serious blows to his chest and face. The bruising had already been bad when they'd gone to bed, and Sam didn't host any illusions that Dean wouldn't be in agony once he woke up. No, he'd do whatever it took to grace his brother with as much rest as he could.

He tightened his hands into fists and prayed that Dean wouldn't wake up. 

* * *

Fighting up to the tarry surface of a seemingly dreamless pit of sleep, Dean came slowly through the veil to consciousness. The nightmare had been last night. As he lay still, heavy with exhaustion, bits and pieces drifted back to him. The cops showing up at the cemetery, the fast and dirty fight free, their get-away, and Sam shot. There had been blood, pain, Dean pinning Sam down to dig a bullet from his flesh, both of them ripe with fear-stink and whiskey. Then Sam had puked all over in the aftermath, nearly choking, and then they'd fallen into the remaining semi-clean bed after Dean had taken care of the worst of it. He had the feeling he was forgetting something. 

Taking stock required a bit more wakefulness. Dean went to that state grudgingly, for with it came the sort of pain that only comes from broken bones, all along his side. His face was pounding as well; it felt swollen and he could barely open one eye. The next thing he noticed was that he was spooned around the back of Sam, and Dean remembered his brother _asking_ him to, saying he was cold and couldn't get warm. It had to have been from shock. Nothing much seemed to have changed in that regard – Sam was still shivering. Dean was about to pull him closer in spite of the pain when he realized something else. 

He was hard. Dean froze, praying Sam's erratic breathing could be explained by nightmares or fever. He couldn't just be hard! Not against his brother's ass, with Sam pretty much helpless and at his mercy. But he was. Dean cursed his body as a traitor and sent gory images through his mind but it was no use. Well, if Sam noticed, he'd pass it off as a morning piss hard-on. His brother didn't have to know that he really didn't have to go. Maybe he could just doze a bit, and it would go down. 

Then it exploded in his mind, and Dean nearly cried out. They had. Not fucked, not even done anything but rubbed against each other. _Frottage,_ like a couple of horny teenagers. They'd both come, and he could still smell it on them, along with the coppery, rotten-meat smell of clotted blood and rancid bile. What the hell had he been thinking, to allow that, hell, facilitate it? Sam had been so needy, desperate, hurt and wanting. He'd probably been thinking he might die. Dean knew a little something about that situation. He'd been through it with other hunters. The sting of regret when such a hunter was too injured to be able to, one last time... So he understood. He could forgive them both that. 

But Sam wasn't dead. Dean wasn't either. And his cock had a mind of its own. It curved up against his belly, throbbing thicker with the memories. If they'd been naked... He was right there, could've lined himself up, he was so wet with pre-cum already... Dean gritted his teeth around a groan. 

Sam jumped to wakefulness and Dean pulled his hips back. Just the sudden movement was enough to make stars of pain bloom in his vision. "Awake, Sam?" It came out like he was speaking through gravel. 

* * *

Suddenly alert when Dean groaned, Sam immediately turned over on his back so he could face him. Swallowing down an agonized gasp himself, he narrowed his eyes in alarm. Dean looked like hell. His right eye was swollen shut in the center of a black-blue mass. A similar-colored pattern of bruises decorated his chest. Sam was convinced that there were at least a couple of cracked ribs – and Dean had been lying on them all night!

Silently cursing himself, Sam shuddered, this time not from the cold. Dean had slept on his injuries because Sam had asked him to, to keep him warm. Why hadn't Dean told him? It must hurt like hell. But this was Dean. Sam felt a wave of annoyed admiration. His brother would never admit to suffering, especially not when he thought Sam needed him. Well, regardless how shitty he felt himself, Sam had eyes in his head, and Dean wouldn't get away with playing the hero this time.

"Awake and alive, thanks to you," he returned Dean's greeting. It cost him to smile through the pain, but he managed. Hopefully, there were a few Percocets left; they'd both need something to keep them going.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't we get the hell out of here A-SAP?"

* * *

Sam hadn't noticed! Thank god for that. Dean allowed himself to roll to his back beside Sam, sighing in relief of the pressure off his ribs. He made sure the blanket decently covered him, below the waist. "Yeah," he answered Sam's question. "I could sleep for three days, but we need to put as many miles as we can behind us." 

Slowly, every shift a literal pain, Dean sat and turned away, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rose unsteadily. Nothing like this sort of discomfort to wilt a stubborn erection. His boxers were navy blue, so the wet spot didn't show. "I had a shower last night, but you need one, bad. Go do that and I'll pack up."

He'd leave it up to Sam to tell him, verbally or otherwise, to what extent he needed any help. Last night, he'd taken control in the end, but things were different in the light of day. 

* * *

The last thing Sam wanted was to move, but thinking about it, it was better than being tracked down by the cops. And Dean was right, he really needed a shower. And his teeth brushed. First of all, though, a handful of pain-killers for both of them. Otherwise, neither of them would be able to drive. 

Watching his brother swing his legs over the side of the bed made Sam cringe. Why was Dean pretending that he was fine? Sam didn't bother to ask or tell him to take things easy. The pain was clearly visible in every move Dean made. Well, he thought grimly, he should at least follow the example. 

Sam managed to get out of bed, on even more unsteady legs than Dean, but he made it to the bathroom without falling. There were two pill bottles on the sink, and he found to his utter relief that they had enough pain-killers to last for a couple of days. The other bottle contained antibiotics, and Sam swallowed one of each, then washed them down with water. It tasted of chlorine, but he couldn't get enough of it. Next, he brushed his teeth, and smiled with relief to finally be rid of the disgusting taste and the pelt on his tongue.

Hoping that the pain-killers would kick in fast, he stepped into the shower and swore. How could he have forgotten...

"Dean, do you want something for your ribs? If so, you'd better hurry and get it while I'm still decent." For some reason, Dean seemed to be uncomfortable with nakedness today. Sam kept his boxer-briefs on and peeled off the bandage on his arm. He grunted with the sudden pain when he pulled at the four-by-four and it was followed by a tampon-shaped piece of gauze – and a gush of blood. 

* * *

Sam called out to him from the bathroom to come get some meds. Dean ignored it. Sam would get on with his shower, he was sure. Sam hated being filthy and smelly much worse than Dean did. He didn't think he could deal with his brother naked, not unless he was in serious trouble where it would make no real impact to the situation. 'Right Dean, just like last night.' 

He didn't have any time to brood over it. Sam swore, and it sounded panicked. Dean arrived in time to see rivulets of blood snaking down Sam's arm. Shit, he wasn't supposed to take the bandage off, but then Dean had never told him, and Sam had been all but unconscious when Dean had packed the wound the night before. 

"Sit down, Sam!" Dean put both hands out, grasped Sam's arms where there were no other injuries, stepped him over to the toilet, closed the lid, and made him sit. Sam looked up at him from under his floppy hair, eyes wide and scared. All Dean needed was his brother passing out. One short night was not enough for his body to produce enough new blood to replace all he'd lost. Grabbing a towel, Dean pressed it hard to the gaping wound and ordered, "Hold that down, hard. I'll have to stitch you now." He should have done it the night before, but had been in no shape at all. It was bleeding freely, yes, but if any of it was healing on the inside already, chances of infection from an imperfect closure now were high. But be damned if Dean was going to be responsible for an ugly gaping scar and perhaps the partial loss of the muscle's use. He had to try. 

Dean shook his head and went to raid the medical kit, what was left of it. There were three twists of suturing thread and a round holder with two needles. He grabbed more gauze, bandages, and the Betadine. The scalpel lay abandoned on the night stand, covered in dried blood. He didn't want to touch it and risk contamination. 

When Dean returned to the tiled little room, Sam hadn't moved. Already there was a red stain showing through his fingers, and he was gritting his teeth, jaw muscles jumping irregularly. Seating himself on the edge of the tub, which was precarious enough, Dean waited till Sam's eyes came around to him. "You're going to have to sit still. I can't hold you down from here. Can you do it?" It was a serious question. If Sam's pupils dilated a little, well, Dean could ignore that. 

* * *

Everything happened fast. By the time Dean had sat him on the toilet, Sam felt close to fainting. Grey dots flashed before his eyes, and noise roared in his ears. He leaned his head back against the wall and tried to figure out and follow Dean's instructions. 

Sam opened his mouth to object when Dean pressed something hard against his arm, but the sudden sharp pain made his eyes water and he had to swallow down a wave of nausea, which effectively cut off his complaint. 

_"Hold that down, hard."_ There wasn't any doubt left in Dean's voice that refusing was not an option. Sam clenched his eyes shut and pressed the towel on the wound. His consciousness seemed to be fading in and out, but Dean had ordered him to keep pressure on his arm. That was the only thing that counted.

Some time later, Dean was speaking to him again. Told him he'd have to sit still. Oh yes, right, the wound needed to be stitched, and that was why Dean was asking him if he could sit still. Sam felt like laughing and crying at the same time: he was sure that if he tried to move he'd slide off the toilet seat and pass out on the floor.

Even looking at Dean cost him an effort, but when Sam saw his brother's pale face underneath the bruising, he knew he could endure the procedure. _For Dean_ – for Dean, he could do this.

He swallowed. "I'm good." Okay, that was a lie, but Dean got the message. Sam's face pulled into a grimace, but his eyes held a hint of a smile. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

"Alright, fine. Let's get this over with." Sam looked anything but fine, but there wasn't much Dean could do about it. His kid brother had downplayed being in bad shape before, the previous night being the most recent. It could be, Dean supposed, an overcompensation for his borderline asthmatic lungs and touchy stomach as a child. The faster he got him fixed up, the better. 

Dean lined up his supplies at the edge of the sink. With Sam holding the towel in place, there was no chance to disinfect the wound site. He'd have to do that later, raid his secret _secret_ stash, which included a bottle of 190-proof Everclear. His hands were trembling; it took four tries to get the needle threaded, each failure accompanied by cursing. At last he got it. He wished he'd brought any available bottle of booze but it was too late for that. He tried to mentally steady himself. 

"Move the towel, Sam," Dean rasped. He held the needle ready. This wasn't going to be aesthetically pleasing at all; he just needed to close the gaping edges of the wound and stop the bleeding. Sam didn't move. What? He was frozen or something, maybe beyond hearing. With his off hand, Dean grasped Sam's wrist and pulled it away. The stained towel fell to the floor. 

More blood ran down Sam's arm. "Shit!" Dean stopped thinking consciously and let his training to do the needful, as quickly as possible, take over. He jabbed the point of the needle through Sam's skin, making a loop, and securing a knot. Then through the skin and muscle opposite. Then he checked on Sam, who hadn't really registered the proceedings. Upright, yeah, but barely conscious by the looks of it. All he needed was for his brother to crash to the floor now and knock his head. "Hey, Sam, you with me? Talk to me!" 

* * *

The room was spinning around him and there was a sharp stinging pain in his upper arm. A monster maybe, feeding on him? Somehow, he couldn't be bothered to react although it hurt like hell. He was too tired to even flinch... Dean would take care of it, he always did... Or maybe it would be over soon...

_"Hey, Sam, you with me? Talk to me!"_

Huh? Sam struggled to open his eyes. Was that Dean? A face swam into focus and Sam's lips twitched into a smile for a fraction of a second before his eyelids drooped again.

_"Sam!"_ A strong hand shook his – good – arm. 

What had Dean demanded before? That Sam talk to him? "Don't wanna talk," he muttered. Why would Dean want him to talk? Usually, it was Dean who refused to talk. Served him right to get a dose of his own medicine. All Sam wanted to do was go back to sleep, like he'd done a minute ago, warm, and in some pleasant dream he couldn't quite remember. Most important, there had been no pain...

"Go away... do whatever you wanna, but lemme sleep..."

* * *

"No, Sam, you can't sleep yet. You can sleep in the car, later." 

Sam wasn't going to listen. He was probably incapable. Dean just hoped to finish before Sam passed out. Shaking his head, he squinted under the harsh fluorescent lighting and got to work. Like the night before, he separated himself from what he had to do.

The stitching, Dean was guessing, was painful enough that Sam couldn't sleep through it. Every time he jabbed the needle in, Sam jerked as if it were the first stick, and his eyelids flew wide, hazel irises turning mud-brown. Pulling the thread through probably hurt him more. Dean finished a dozen ugly, not very neat sutures, knotted the thread, and bit it off. More crimson blood dripped, but less and less. Distanced, Dean admired the way the red lines followed the raised veins in Sam's ropy forearm. It had its own disturbing beauty. 

Lastly, he swiped Betadine over the whole works and re-bandaged it. "You want a shower, Sam?" Dean asked. It would have been better to that first, but obviously that didn't happen. He wasn't sure if he could manage Sam's heavy limbs in the slippery environment, if he happened to slip. A bath might be better. Sam stank, which was negligible: their lives were worth more than that. 

* * *

Sam scrunched his nose, twitching and grunting with pain every time he was bitten. Whenever he managed to focus his eyes before drifting off again, he wondered why Dean would be biting him. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. Why couldn't Dean just let him be? Why should he sleep in the car, later; what was wrong with here and now?

Apparently, Dean showed mercy as the sharp stings stopped and were replaced by a less intense, though more constant, pain. There was something wet... licking over the bites maybe? 

And yes, the biting... Had Dean been turned into a vampire? Sam jolted awake. He'd have to do something about this... When he opened his eyes, he saw that Dean was staring at the blood running down his arm. No, this couldn't be true!

Then, he noticed the Betadine in his brother's hand, and it fell back into place. Still, better make sure. He opened his mouth, but Dean spoke first.

Did Sam want a shower? Suddenly, the reek hit him. There wasn't only the blood, but also old, dried sweat, the stink of gasoline and smoke, and... grave dirt. He shuddered. Oh yes, he wanted a shower. However, the dizziness in his head said maybe he shouldn't have one. Given how he felt right now, he'd probably pass out and crack his grapefruit open, which wouldn't be fair to Dean...

Right, Dean. His brother was still giving him his most concerned look, waiting for a reply. "Shower's awesome," he slurred, "but not sure I c'n..." 

Wait, wasn't there something else? Oh yes, how could he have forgotten; what a hunter he was! "Open your mouth for me, bro."

* * *

"What!?" Dean barked. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Clearly Sam was not all there right now. Open his mouth? For what? Well. 

"You need more than just _that_ part washed, Sammy," he chuckled. No way would Sam remember this; he might as well have some fun with him. The continued headache wasn't much fun, that was for sure.

* * *

"Wha-what?" Sam replied, knitting his brows and trying to figure out what Dean could possibly mean. "No. I mean, there's no need. I already um, washed my..." Somehow this wasn't coming out right.

"I mean, I need to see your..." Sam interrupted himself as his eyes fell on the sink with the pill bottles next to his toothbrush. "Oh, sure, you'll want some of these, too." His brother probably wasn't thinking clearly; he must be in a lot of pain. 

Sam sighed. "Okay, Dean, you can have a pill first and then show me your fangs."

Dean answered by giving him a look that was somewhere between panic and total amusement.

"You wanna check that my teeth are clean?" Sam remembered that Dean had always made sure Sam didn't cheat on his dental care when they were little. Maybe that was what his brother was asking for. 

"I'll show you. Come here." He leaned forward and brought his face closer to Dean's until they almost touched. "Minty fresh," he whispered against Dean's mouth, then he suddenly had an idea how to find out if his sibling had turned into a vampire. Sam kissed Dean and ran his tongue over the soft lips. "Let me in..."

* * *

"I don't have fangs!" Dean stopped short of pulling up the sides of his gums to reveal normal human teeth. That would be ridiculous. "And I don't need to check your teeth, dumbass. The fact that your breath doesn't smell like puke mixed with a steaming pile of dead buzzard tells me you brushed." Dean got this out, and found himself face to face, much too close for comfort, with Sam. His brother kissed him and tried to give him the tongue. Oh, he was tempted; Sam was never so up front about what he wanted, not to start with, and a more vocal Sam appealed to Dean quite a bit, but if he allowed it to go on (was he really considering it?), they'd never get out of here. He returned the kiss gently, but leaned back slightly afterwards. Jeez, Sam's lips were so soft, but he was sloppy in his movements. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think the lightweight was still drunk. Or... 

Uh-oh. Sam mentioned the pills. Had he...? A double dose of antibiotics might make him nauseous but wouldn't really hurt him. The pain killers, though. Dean reached for that bottle and yes, Sam had taken two Percocets. Meaning there were two left. Pulling away from the cow-eyes Sam was making at him, Dean took one before anything else could happen to it. The way things were going, he'd probably have to haul his brother's dead weight yet again, soon. 

At this rate, Sam wasn't going to get a shower, especially not totally stoned on pain killers. Dean was all for throwing his ass in the car 'as is' and blasting the heater. It would get toxic in the interior, but it was better than freezing. Sam needed to be warm to heal. Not sure what to do, Dean pulled on Sam's uninjured arm. "Stand up, before you can't. We're going for a little walk."

* * *

Dean pulled him to his feet. The room was still spinning a little, and Sam was tempted to lean against his brother. Dean wouldn't let him fall. Also, he had such a nice chest... Sam wanted to feel the firm muscle... And Dean's body heat... He was still so cold... 

Something Dean had just said registered. "A walk? But you said I could sleep in the car..." Sam frowned, then his face lit up. "Hey, can I drive?"

He followed Dean to the bedroom, his good arm holding tight on Dean, just in case. Dean had already packed their stuff. A set of clean clothes was laid out on Sam's bed. Getting dressed took some time and he wouldn't have managed without Dean's help. Even so, he was only wearing sweat pants and a flannel shirt now: with his injury, there had just been no way to maneuver his left arm into the T-shirt's sleeve.

When Dean took his arm again and led him outside, the chill air made Sam gasp. By the time they reached the Impala, he was shaking with cold. All he wanted was to curl up in bed under at least four blankets and... He blinked when he saw that Dean, who had already loaded their gear into the car, had also brought the blanket from his bed. Smiling when he remembered that Dean had kept him warm over night under that blanket, he turned to face him. The blanket would smell of Dean, and Sam needed to tell him how much it meant that Dean was here, taking care of him.

"Dean," he whispered and sloppily wrapped his good arm around his brother's shoulders. "Love ya."

* * *

"Yeah, dude. Love you, too." Dean said it wryly. Sam wasn't going to remember it, anyway. If he did, then he'd likely remember what a handsy schmuck he was being, too. That might be good for a laugh. 

Wrangling Sam into his clothes was an adventure in babysitting. He was about as capable as a three year old, and ten times the size. He found every excuse to lean against Dean or hold on to him, it seemed to the older brother. Random touches found him, especially the unbruised side of his chest, and his arms. Once, a fingernail traced his nipple; it immediately hardened and he hissed in a breath. Dean bit the bullet and kept his comments to himself. It wasn't Sam's fault his inhibitions were trashed right now. Before it was over, he was tingling too from touching Sam's warm, firm skin, not even caring that he still reeked. It wasn't as bad with clean clothes.

But, they had to go. Bundling Sam into the car first, Dean went back into the room for a final inspection, grabbed a few items, and then filched the blanket from the bed. Baby roared to life and settled into her metallic purr. The Percocet was starting to relax him a little. It would be bearable to drive, for a while. He didn't have a destination in mind, he just headed out in the same direction as before, turning South at a crossroads. They'd discussed food, but it could wait for another stop. Looking over, Dean noted that Sam was already slack-mouthed, eyes closed, zonked out. He looked young, asleep. Not twelve, not with stubble and the sharp angles his face had acquired during his stint in California, but younger than his years. The moles on Sam's face were familiar landmarks. Otherwise, he sometimes wondered if they knew each other at all. And what the fuck, about last night? He'd sworn off that teenaged messing around when Sam was 15, and gotten him laid for real. So why...? 

"I love you, Sam." His voice was too raw. He needed a drink. As far as Dean was concerned, he'd said it to clear his mind. There. It was out. Now, he was free to plan, think of where they'd go off to next. 

* * *

_"I love you, Sam."_

Sam smiled. He was floating, sometimes awake and sometimes lulled to sleep by the purring of the Impala. As a child, he'd often been sick during long journeys, but never when Dean was driving. His brother became one with his 'Baby' and handled her smoothly and with affection – with love, just like he treated him, Sam. 

Sam opened his eyes and centered on Dean's profile. The barely noticeable crook in his nose. The stubble on his chin and cheeks. The light freckles that multiplied when they spent time in the sun – not they did that very often. The green eyes looked worried. 'No,' Sam wanted to say. He wanted Dean to smile his radiant smile, to laugh out loud with mischief or happiness, or both. His gaze fell on the hollow on Dean's throat, and he felt the urge to lean over and lick into it. Sam quickly looked away and at his brother's hands. Strong hands, and yet they could be so gentle, like when they had taught little Sammy how to pleasure himself...

Had it just gotten warmer? Sam felt as if the sweat was pouring off him in buckets. And his head hurt. Maybe he should lie down, surely Dean wouldn't mind...

Sam scooted down the seat and leaned to the left until his head reached his brother's lap. No, this wouldn't work, there was no way to keep his legs comfortable. Also, lying on is arm hurt. He rooted around until he'd turned on his back. With bent legs and his feet on his seat and his head in Dean's lap, he felt better although it still was way too warm. Oh, right, the blanket. Sam managed to kick it aside, but it didn't change much.

"Dean," he whispered, surprised that although his brother had tensed when Sam had stirred, he hadn't made a comment on Sam using him as a pillow. "Dean, can you open a window, please?"

* * *

Once they hit the open road, Sam's sleep wasn't as sound as Dean would have expected. How his brother could rest at all with all the turning about, mumbling in his sleep, was anyone's guess. More than once, Dean had slid his eyes sideways in a premonition, sure Sam was staring at him, but he caught nothing. Then later, too damned tall for it or not, Sam rooted around trying to get more comfortable, ending up with his head in Dean's lap. He made himself – all of himself – relax. 

The Impala's heater made it all toasty warm inside, the sun was out, and the Percocet had taken most of the pain from Dean's ribs. Another side effect of the drug was the soporific. Yawning, he had to concentrate hard to keep the car on the road. He used some more effort in keeping his hand from stroking Sam's hair. It was getting greasy. The long strands were scattered about his face and it would have been easy to brush them away but Dean restrained himself. Neither of them had bothered to button up Sam's flannel shirt during the hasty departure; Sam's bare chest gleamed in the watery morning light, patterned with shadows from the steering wheel. There were a few fine red-brown hairs on his pecs – when had that happened? Dean was totally smooth at four years older, which was just weird.

Sam's voice startled Dean. Open a window? "Not a good plan, Sam, but I'll turn down the heat." Now that he mentioned it, Sam's skin was looking flushed and sweaty. If he had a fever, wouldn't he be cold? Unless it was really bad, burning him from the inside out... Surely Dean wasn't that bad of an impromptu field medic to let the wound get septic. Dad had made him learn, on himself when necessary. What if those friggin' cops had done something to their ammo? Dean had heard of that, with guerrilla warfare, they'd dip the casings in sewage. The bullet didn't kill: the infection did. His guts clenched tight. No way was he letting Sammy go through that.

"Do you feel sick, Sam? How's the arm? Maybe we should stop so I can take a look." Dean kept his voice casual. He knew what he needed to do, if it was bad. They'd go to Harvelle's Roadhouse, half a day's drive if he pushed it. Ellen had a serious beef with their dad and Jo hated him for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, but hunters took care of their own and both women were known to have experience with treating injuries and supernatural maladies. Unconsciously, he'd taken the bypass that would eventually get them to the backroad tavern. 

* * *

Sam tried to lie still, but he couldn't stop moving. It was so hot, even though Dean had turned the heater down. He must be developing a fever; if it were the ambient temperature causing his sweat and heat flushes, Dean would be feeling it, too.

Asked if he was sick, Sam shook his head – which was a bad idea, and he groaned. The arm? He moved it and grimaced. It had been worse, but it could be much, much better. "I'm okay," he told Dean, forcing a grin on his face. "Not exactly fine but okay."

He turned serious. "What about you?" Sam raised his good arm and gingerly touched Dean's bruised chest. 

* * *

Dean was not convinced when Sam said he was 'okay'. His brother raised a hand to touch Dean's chest, and he hissed in pain. Cracked ribs covered in ugly bruises didn't make for anything resembling pleasant. He was almost grateful, though; with Sam's face in his lap, the warm, maybe too warm, body so close, distraction was key. Careful not to move too quickly and either drive off the road or jar one or both of them, he grasped Sam's wrist and moved his hand away.

"Yeah, like you said. Okay, not great. For one thing, you swallowed two of the Percocets, you idjit." Dean swallowed dryly, tongue flicking out to set his lips. Damn, he was thirsty. "We're going to Harvelle's. I want them to look at your arm." 

* * *

"And at your ribs," Sam replied immediately, a hint of challenge in his voice. He hadn't missed Dean's reaction to the light touch, which meant that his brother must be in agony. Dean hadn't even given him his usual 'I'm fine'. Sam didn't like the implication.

Two Percocets would explain why he felt so woozy, maybe also why he felt so hot, but it meant that he'd likely be in a lot more pain later. He wasn't hungry but they'd need food eventually, and he was parched. Dean hadn't lost blood and wasn't sweating like a pig, but Sam guessed he wouldn't fight something to drink either. Sam was desperate for a shower, and Dean needed rest. His brother had been up all night tending him, and his injuries were more severe than he'd let on.

"Dean, how long since we hit the road? Any chance we could pull off? I could do with breakfast, and I really want to rest."

What he really wanted was to make Dean rest, but the only way to get his brother to look after his needs was by pretending he was doing it for Sam.

* * *

"We've only been on the road for a couple hours. Seems like longer to me, too. The next town is about 15 miles. We can stop there, see how it goes." Dean was hungry, too. "Need coffee! Think they make pig in a poke?" he cracked. Carbs, greasy breakfast meat, and syrup sounded like heaven. "Whole wheat and turkey bacon for you." Meanwhile, he'd watch Sam like a hawk and check his wound again. It didn't escape Dean that Sam wanted to check him, too, but like he'd told him last night, there wasn't much that could be done for him. 

The radio was picking up a classic rock station. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel along with Def Leppard and shifted in his seat. It was getting too warm under his butt and around his groin. Little by little his muscles were tightening against the pain, having to hold himself still and in one position. He drove over a hill and sighed in relief at seeing the silhouettes of a water tower and a church steeple ahead. It was a small town, but maybe there'd at least be one motel or rental. They had enough cash to get by right now, and there were always the credit cards. 

* * *

"I don't care what I eat as long as I get to sleep in a bed for a few hours," Sam said. "Last night was way too short." After the cemetery job, the flight, and all the rest, they'd left in the early morning. Sam doubted that either of them had gotten more than two or three hours of sleep.

"As much as I love your Baby, I wouldn't mind stretching my legs." Sam wondered if he was expected to comment that Dean's thighs were too hard or something, but truth was it felt so good to be close to his brother that he refrained from it. If he complained, Dean would push him away or suggest Sam stretch out on the back seat. 

No, he wanted to get Dean into bed... wait a minute, what was his fried brain suggesting here? Sam wanted Dean to _sleep_ , nothing more! He'd better take really good care what he said...

* * *

In only a few minutes, the rolling hills flattened into a hollow in which the town nestled. Right at the edge, along the two-lane highway, the Redbird Inn Motel hunkered in a short row and shorter el, the Vacancy sign lit up in – of course – red. "Looks like we're in luck. I'll get us a room, get you settled, and go get us some food. Maybe there's a diner with to-go boxes." 

Dean slowed and turned off the road into the motel parking lot, braking in front of the office. It was an odd time of day to be checking in. He hoped the shiner and swollen face didn't give him any trouble or get him recognized. Paranoia was a fact of life; he'd learned that early. 

Sam made no move. His eyes were closed, motionless behind the lids. Dean could tell he wasn't sleeping, though. "Sam, sit up now. I have to go talk to the manager." Still nothing. "The sooner you move, the sooner we can get in bed." Shit, that came out wrong. 

* * *

Sam opened his eyes and met Dean's – _eye_. He frowned. His brother's right eye was barely visible in the midst of the bruises. That wouldn't sit well with the manager... 

..and why was his mind suggesting that there was a subtext to Dean's innocent remark that the sooner he moved, the sooner they could get into bed? 

Sam found it hard to focus his thoughts. It must be the pills, he mused. They were also likely the cause of the alternating heat and cold spells. The sooner he got into bed, the sooner he could sleep them off...

He forced himself to concentrate on the present. Dean needed food and rest, and Sam would take care of his injured sibling.

"Would you button up my shirt?" he asked, pushing aside the yearning for Dean's hand on his naked chest. " _I_ will get us a room. You don't exactly look trustworthy and we don't want to raise suspicion. As for breakfast, I'm sure there's a pizza delivery or something." 

Sam winked, hoping he didn't look as stoned as he felt. "Maybe they even offer pig-in-a-poke pizza."

* * *

"Pizza delivery in a two-horse town like this? I doubt it," Dean retorted in reference to pizza for breakfast. "And just, ew," he went on, when Sam made a joke about his favorite breakfast as pizza toppings. "Stick to the plan, man. How are you going in to get a room when you can't even sit up?" An edge or irritation was creeping into Dean's voice. He wasn't angry at Sam. Just... everything. His body was craving sleep so badly that every minute of distraction grated on his last nerve. 

About to ask Sam if he couldn't button his own damned shirt, Dean stopped himself. If the kid couldn't sit up, then probably he couldn't dress himself, either. Earlier, Dean had had to help him, doing almost all the work. "Well, you need to cover up, anyway..." He muttered. It wouldn't do to have Sam wandering around outside, injured, stoned on pain killers, feverish and bare-chested. With their luck, someone would put out a call for the men with little white coats. 

Turning only enough to reach, Dean extended his hands to the soft front plackets of Sam's faded plaid shirt. He pulled the cloth panels together across the expanse of Sam's chest and matched button to buttonhole, not the top but the next one down. God, not again. It was impossible not to touch, and his inner eye about-faced and saw him not buttoning the flannel, but undressing his... Dean ground his teeth; his fingers felt so clumsy as he fumbled with it. Jeez, what if someone walked by and saw them, Sam lying there, head in his lap, and Dean himself... His breathing hitched. 

He couldn't help it. Couldn't. Let himself touch the faint pattern of hairs on his brother's skin, across one pectoral, the dip in the breastbone, the other side of his chest. "Look at you, Sammy," he whispered. Upside-down, those hazel eyes focused on his face, nothing but trust over the pain he bore. God. It took forever, but Dean did up another button and another, saying nothing further. He couldn't even tell Sam to get out of the car. He sure as hell couldn't. Not now. 

* * *

"Feels so good," Sam whispered. "Dean... I..." He swallowed. The desire to pull his brother close, push Dean's shirt up and feel skin on skin grew stronger and stronger. Sam reached out – and was reminded of his injury by a sharp twang in his arm. It also reminded him of Dean's injury. Only a few minutes ago, Dean had flinched in pain already when Sam's hand had barely touched his chest. 

This was so wrong! He shouldn't desire his sibling! Most of the time, Sam had a firm lock on his feelings, but being sick seemed to erode his emotional shields. And the dream he'd had last night, Dean on top of him, rubbing against each other, certainly didn't help bottling things up.

But, a voice in his mind suggested, if this is all just a fantasy of yours, how come Dean is caressing you, here and now? The expression on his brother's face... Was this another dream?

Dean finished with his shirt and Sam felt the loss of his brother's hands on him. It hurt – on a different level than the pain he'd feel in a few seconds, he thought grimly. He took a deep breath and sat up. The brief twang in his arm turned into a roaring fire, and he cried out. Shit, weren't the pain killers supposed to take care of that?

Sam turned to Dean with watering eyes. "Sorry, man, 'fraid you're right, I'm pretty useless." He winced. "You'll have to get that room for us. Just hurry up, will you?" As soon as it was out he thought he shouldn't have said that. Dean didn't take well to being ordered, and that was what he must think. No way was Sam going to explain that he couldn't bear the thought of being alone for even the few minutes it would take to make the arrangements.

* * *

Breaking the spell, Sam lurched into a sitting position. A hoarse cry wrenched from his throat. Dean flushed across his face and neck at what it reminded him of, the throbbing in his groin urgent for two heartbeats. Sam's outburst wasn't passion, though. Yeah, now wasn't he a sick puppy, hard for his injured brother? _That was a cry of pain_ , his brain registered. His ears were buzzing again, the world gone soft-focused and lopsided; Sam's vocalization reminded him that they were not out of danger, not by a long shot.

When his sibling barked at him to hurry up with the registration, Dean had to bite down a rebuke. Normally, he wouldn't let anyone, especially not Sam, get away with trying to tell him what to do. Since Dad had died, Dean wouldn't subject himself for even a minute to orders from on high like that. Never again. Dean was no one's 'good little soldier boy' any longer, he was his own. But he'd overlook it, concerned over the fact that moving even that small amount made Sam yelp. He managed a delayed, "Bitch!" 

At least the moment of clarity had wilted his erection. Dean opened his door and got out, nearly moaning at the movement. He wasn't much better off, the shooting pain in his side and overall stiffness nearly taking his will to do anything but sit down again and then sleep. Walking the short distance to the office seemed to take forever. Dean approached the counter and dinged the little bell sitting on it. 

The manager was a balding and unshaven older man in a stained wifebeater. He didn't bat an eye at Dean's appearance, and didn't give him the typical, 'two queens' schlock. Dean could barely remember the information that corresponded to the fake credit cards at the moment. Not wanting to risk a mistake, he paid in cash. The manager gave them the end room, which suited Dean just fine. 

Sam hadn't moved, probably to keep the pain at a minimum, and Dean backed Baby out of the parking spot and drove them a few doors down, to their room. Now he'd have to get Sam inside and settle him in, then make a food run. He was worried what would happen when the Percocet and antibiotics wore off. At Harvelle's, there was a better likelihood of being able to buy or trade for such things, or to pick up intel on possible connections. They weren't exactly flush with cash, but, well, if it came to it, it wouldn't be the first time he'd used his body as payment, although he stopped short of being bent over. 

Walking around to Sam's door, Dean opened it and moved in close. Sam was going to need whatever strength remained in either of them to get inside. That a wound to his arm was making Sam this helpless was not a good sign. But he was right that if they didn't get some rest, 'beyond useless' wouldn't begin to cover it. "Alright, come on. Out of the car, Sam. Bed's inside, just a little way, like, twenty steps, okay?" 

* * *

Again, the cold air hit Sam like a brick wall when Dean opened the passenger door. Hadn't he been sweating his skin off only a minute ago? The heat flushes and sweating indicated that his fever had broken, but the chill meant that it was rising again, not a good sign at all. 

Besides, he'd seen Dean cussing over a shot-gun wound to his shoulder but, other than being in an exceptionally foul mood for a couple of days, his brother hadn't become sick from it. And here was Sammy, the little wuss, completely down with only a flesh wound where Dean had at least a couple of cracked ribs. Sam hated himself.

At least, he could try to pull himself together now. Dean said the bed was only twenty steps away. Surely, he could manage that. Very carefully, he moved his legs until he faced the door. Dean held out his hand, but Sam shook his head at it. He was too winded to speak, but he hoped that Dean would get the message that Sam was trying to get out on his own.

It took all the strength he could muster, but he felt immensely pleased with himself when he was standing, on wobbly legs and still leaning against the car, but nevertheless standing upright.

Catching his breath, he remembered that Dean had thrown him a 'bitch' earlier. "Jerk," he whispered affectionately. "Okay, let's try this..."

Dean walked right next to him, ready for him if he should falter, but the thought that it would hurt Dean even more to catch him than to have supported him in the first place held him upright. Dean unlocked the door and Sam stumbled inside, teeth clenched and arm throbbing, but he made it to the bed, just about. When his knees buckled, Dean was there for him.

As soon as he touched the mattress, Sam's body gave out and he curled up on the bed with a loudly-hissed, "Fuck!"

Dean looked at him worriedly, but Sam pressed out, "No, I'll be alright, just need a moment here." He wished he could help with unpacking or breakfast, but knew it wasn't going to happen.

"Dean?" Their eyes met and Sam winced again at the swelling and discoloration on his brother's face. "Thanks, man."

* * *

Stubbornly, Sam refused Dean's help in getting out of the car or into the room. He moved like an old, old man, and Dean stayed no more than two steps from him the entire time, getting the door unlocked at the mid-point. Just a step short of the bed nearest the door, which by unspoken tradition should have been Dean's, Sam either stumbled or his body gave out. Lucky he was so close. Dean put his arms around Sam for support and lowered him to the bed.

This place had some of the ugliest decor yet, mostly brown with spots of garish colors on the bedspreads and not-exactly-matching old wallpaper. The beds weren't even queen size, but the old-fashioned doubles. Dean lifted Sam's feet, which were going to hang off the end, to the bed and removed his shoes. For this, he got a grateful glance, but already Sam's eyes were glazed with sleep. Quickly, he went outside and gathered up their duffle bags, the blanket from the car, the medical kit again, a bottle of Ibuprofen, and a bottle of Johnny Walker. Depositing all this on the spare bed, he covered Sam – tucked him in – and told him he'd go into town but be back soon. 

Yes, right. Funny how plans kept changing. An hour ago, they were going to make a quick stop for food and caffeine, and now, here they were, hunkered down for the day. Helpless as a child was how it felt to Dean, and he didn't like it at all. But he had to be strong and keep his head, keep his wits, for Sam. On the bed, his brother moved only as much as was necessary for breathing. Dean felt a guilty surge of strong emotion, watching him sleep. If he weren't hurt and out of his mind from shock and pain, Sam would never have allowed himself to be manipulated into anything sexual. He was stronger-willed than that, just look at the purity of his face. Picking up the keys, Dean turned toward the door. 

* * *

He'd made it to the bed, alright. After that, Sam was too wiped out to move at all. He couldn't even speak to thank his brother for taking his shoes off, but Dean seemed to get the message.

Sam was again shifting between being asleep and awake. He dreamed of Dean holding him in his arms, keeping him warm and safe. Then he'd wake and yearn for him. Where was Dean, he'd left such a long time ago, was it possible that his brother had abandoned him? A phone call would resolve his worries, but his cell was in his duffle where he'd seen Dean stash it. The duffle was on the other bed and Sam couldn't even sit up.

Tears of pain, fear, and frustration ran down his face. He'd never felt so alone before.

"Dean," Sam whispered, "please come back to me? I need you..."

* * *

God, it sucked, leaving Sam there but he had to, for a little while. Dean lugged himself back out to the car and drove a few blocks to the town's main street. As far as eats, there was a diner and a convenience store. He picked fast over taste. There was no way to be inconspicuous. The Impala was his pride and joy but she always got him noticed, and today, his face was a mess of black, blue, and green, the edges of the bruising fading to yellow. Dean tightened his lips and resolve, picking up bottles of Gatorade, soda, several mini pizzas from the front warmers, donuts, cherry pies and a banana for Sam. He felt like he was being stared at the whole time; several other customers were there as well, and most gave him the once-over. When it was his turn at the cash register, Dean kept his face down and spoke as little as possible. 

Ten minutes later, he was back at the room, bags of food in his hands. He got an uneasy feeling, juggling everything to key open the lock. Sam's breathing was erratic and he was restless again. Setting everything down on the bed next to their other supplies, he turned around to check on Sam. Shit! His brother's face was red and tear-tracked. What had happened? He'd been gone only for half an hour, but Dean felt overwhelming guilt. 

"What's the matter, Sammy? What happened? Tell me!" Unmindful of his own body, Dean dropped to his knees, hissed, leaned forward toward Sam. That wasn't good enough. He pushed the heavy body back on the bed and crawled up there with him, lying down facing Sam and throwing an arm around him. Dean toed off his shoes, which thumped to the floor. "I'm here. It's alright." 

Sam's eyes opened, fever-bright, and studied him. It wasn't an open invitation, not a come-on. Chances were he wasn't even very awake. Cursing himself a selfish, needy bastard, Dean moved in and took Sam's soft pink mouth, just gently. He kissed him again and slanted his head to fit them together. Sam still tasted of toothpaste from the early morning, along with the unique taste that was all him that Dean craved like air itself. 

* * *

_"I'm here. It's alright."_

When Sam opened his eyes on Dean's face, he didn't know if it was real or a dream. He even wondered if there was a difference at all. What mattered was that Dean was back and Sam was no longer alone. His brother had an arm wrapped around him and now he leaned even closer. Soft lips brushed his, so gently that the touch almost didn't register.

Dean kissed him again, and Sam relaxed against him as best as he could. Facing each other, neither had to lie on their injuries. Sam smiled, which caused Dean to break the kiss and look at him. Apparently, he was satisfied with what he saw and he returned the smile. Their lips touched again, and Sam revelled in the warmth spreading through his body. He felt loved, cherished, cared for. It was all that he could wish for at the moment.

"Dean. You're here. You came back to me," Sam breathed. He hesitated before letting his tongue tip ghost over his brother's lower lip. When Dean didn't pull back but opened his mouth, Sam could have cried with bliss. Their tongues met, touched lightly, then Sam felt Dean licking over his, Sam's, lips with infinite care and devotion. 

Sam was too exhausted to move, and he knew that Dean could not be in a much better state. He'd have wanted more despite knowing that it would never happen outside his dreams, but even in his dreams – and this had to be one – his body failed to react, at least in the sexual way he'd have expected. 

He let himself fall into the sensations of the kiss they shared, feeling as one with the brother he loved so much.

* * *

"Of course I came back... Can't get rid of me that easy." Why would Sam think such a thing? Maybe a bad dream. Dean pulled at the blanket till it covered both of them. Sam settled, and Dean eased over against him. He was so tired, but he didn't want to stop this, the closeness and the match of Sam's body against his, the sleepy-pliant lips barely moving and yet so responsive, when paired with the openness of his brother's expression, under his. 

They would fall asleep soon, and they both needed that more than anything right now. Dean lay a final kiss on Sam's mouth, running his tongue along the lower lip and sucking just slightly, then let go. He nuzzled into Sam's neck and then he was out. Dean's last thought was that they still hadn't eaten, hadn't checked Sam's stitches, nothing. It would have to wait. 


	4. Chapter 4

Every time Sam opened his eyes, his arm hurt more. He was hot and cold at the same time and incredibly thirsty, but he forced himself to keep still: Dean needed the rest.

His brother had fallen asleep close to him with his nose and lips against Sam's neck and their bodies molded together. Dean was an uneasy sleeper at the best of times. That he'd be out almost immediately after settling down told Sam that he was more exhausted than he let on. Sam had no intention of waking him up a second earlier than necessary.

If he was honest with himself, though, he had to admit that keeping Dean asleep was not only for his sibling's benefit but also for his own. Regardless how bad the throbbing in his wound got, having to let go of the warm body close to his would be worse.

Choking down a whimper, Sam gingerly shifted his left hand over on his brother's hip. It hurt like hell, but he needed the contact. Moving only his thumb in a gentle caress didn't make the pain flare up as much, Sam smiled to himself. He might be a klutz for getting shot and a wimp for making such a fuss over being treated, but at least he wasn't denying Dean the sleep he needed so much.

* * *

Dean was having a good dream, a nice dream. He was warm, he was happy. He and Sam were suspended in time and space somewhere, some- _when_ , with no ghosts or shifters or small-town cops, just each other. There was the pulling and yearning feeling he'd long associated with Sam, but no need to hide it. In the dream, Sam kissed him like it was the most natural and expected thing ever. Easily. But that didn't make the passion any less. If anything, it made it higher, knowing they could have anything, everything, no stopping, no guilt. Dean knew he was hard, so ready, take or be taken didn't even matter, how strange. He grabbed onto Sam, ground against him, pushed in... 

In near-dark in a strange room he could barely recall the circumstances of arriving at, Dean slowly shifted into consciousness. The place smelled like pepperoni and dust and mildew... And Sam. Not-so-clean-Sam. Shit. They really had fallen asleep wrapped into each other again. Yes, he'd done it, had kissed Sam again and slept in the same bed again. Right now, his lips were pasted to Sam's long neck; he pulled back slowly, wincing with embarrassment at the tacky drool. Okay, no one would argue about body heat and close comfort for a shocky gunshot victim being beneficial. But not making out with them, nor – Fuck! – being hard and pressing his hips in tight little hitches against Sam's. 

He tried to wiggle away, but Sam's arm was on him. The thumb was making little circles right under his hip-bone. Dean felt the touch like a brand of fire, straight to his balls. Moaning his brother's name, he opened his eyes wide and found himself – again – staring into hazel eyes that picked up a blue tinge in the faint light. 

* * *

_"Sam."_

Dean said – moaned – his name when he surfaced from sleep. Sam smiled. Dean's irises were almost swallowed by his pupils. At first, Sam thought it was because of the dim light in the room, but then he felt a heat source against his groin that stood out even against the heat his own body was radiating. 

It felt good. Dean made to pull away, but Sam didn't want him to leave. He wasn't aware of it, but he must have tightened his hand on his brother's hip because he stayed. If anything, Dean snuggled even closer.

"Dean." Sam's voice was a little hoarse. Maybe it was from the screaming while Dean had dug out the bullet from his arm. Maybe it was from the fever that seemed to have settled in his bones. At least his head was clear. Sam knew that his condition was serious. It was more than the blood loss. He hadn't had a proper sleep in a long time, always keeping himself awake with research or pills in order to avoid sharing a bed with his brother. He'd known that payback would be a bitch, and now payday had arrived.

Why had he been so afraid of admitting his love, his desire for Dean during all this time? So maybe the fever was still messing with his head, but he thought he recognized in the depth of Dean's eyes the same feelings.

"Dean," he repeated because it felt so good to say his brother's name. "I'm here. Not going anywhere." 

Sam held his breath as he leaned in and let his lips touch Dean's.

* * *

It didn't take a genius, even a horny one, to feel the heat coming off Sam that had nothing to do with sex. They'd gotten semi-tangled in sleep, sure, but this had to end _now_. Sam's injured body had needs that were entirely conflicting to the needs Dean's body, hurt or not, thought it had right now. "Sammy," he whispered, even then taking one last guilty kiss. Why did Sam have to kiss so good? "Time to wake up... Let me check your stitches." 

Dean rolled onto his back, taking his guilty boner with him. What was going on with him?? He never should have touched Sam last night. Never. But, in all honesty, he'd done the only thing his instincts had said he had left to calm his younger brother down enough to 'operate'. What a hell-mess. Not only that, Sam still hadn't showered, they hadn't eaten, he needed fluids to rehydrate after losing all that blood and sweat. And neither of them had even been to the bathroom in more than half a day. Some fine care-taker he was!

* * *

Sam's hand fell to the mattress as Dean pulled away and the fiery stab through his arm made his eyes water. "Not sure I want that checked," he hissed through clenched teeth. He knew that Dean was right, though. Something was happening to his body that needed to be stopped. He shuddered, hating himself for being so weak.

"Dean," he whispered, "Sorry, man, but I'm afraid this is turning into a hospital job."

* * *

"No, no hospitals. But I'll take a look now and see..." Dean gave himself a minute, then flicked on the light switch on the wall by the door. Nothing. He fumbled about for a lamp. The bulb couldn't have been more than 40 watts. "Do you think you're up for hauling your carcass into the bathroom? Dunno about you but I gotta pee." And he could use that an excuse for earlier. 

Sitting on the bed where he'd piled all their stuff, Dean unzipped his duffel bag and found a clean shirt, but everything else needed washing. Sam's kit was the same, although he also had clean underwear thanks to still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. These things, he pulled out and piled next to him on the bedspread. "I got us some food while I was out. You hungry?" 

* * *

Sam's eyes froze when he watched the pill bottle fall to the floor. Dean hadn't noticed that it had been wrapped up in Sam's underwear, but he couldn't miss it now. Shit. He was too tired for another fight, and this was a discussion he'd hoped they'd never have.

"Bathroom, yeah," he replied while trying to think up a distraction for Dean. "Not hungry, not thirsty, no urge to pee, but I really, _really_ need a shower." He wrinkled his nose. "Or make that a bath. Not sure I can stand up for very long."

Sam smiled. "You go have a pee and I'll see if I can get up – no worries, I'll just sit and let my legs dangle, not stand on my own. There won't be a crashing noise from me collapsing, dragging you from the crapper with half-finished business."

He hadn't lied: Sam had no intention of standing up. However, if Dean made it to the bathroom without noticing the pills, Sam would somehow, regardless how much it hurt, manage to kick the bottle under the bed or otherwise out of sight.

* * *

For a minute, it seemed like something was very, very wrong. Like they were about to have a serious argument, only Dean had no idea why. The moment passed, and Sam relaxed, confessing that a bath was foremost on his list, and promising to not try to walk on his own yet. Dean looked him over, then stood up go use the facilities. Of course Sam would have to mention Dean being a morning man, in the BM department. Well, maybe he should be grateful that Sam was well enough to be annoying. Dean switched on the light and the overhead fan and sat. He even started the bath water at the same time. 

Things were quiet out there. Maybe for once the kid was going to stick to what he said and keep his gangling limbs out of trouble for more than two seconds. Still, Dean couldn't help but wonder what Sam had been so worried about. It had been when he was fishing for clean clothes for Sam. Or right after. Something he was hiding in his bag? Whatever it was, Dean would get to the bottom of it. 

* * *

OK, he was not going to enjoy this. Sam had no idea how long he had before Dean was back, but he expected him to hurry so he could take care of Sam.

Right. He'd promised he'd sit and let his legs dangle. Sam ground his teeth as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Still, although he was breathing harshly by the time he sat on the edge of the bed, he hadn't made a sound otherwise. So far, so good, for step one of the plan. Now, for the part he hadn't told Dean about...

Getting down on the floor was harder than it looked, especially as Sam had promised not to stand. He'd kept his promise – to the letter: after some painful maneuvering around, he was kneeling on the carpet, but not standing. He picked the pill bottle up with his good hand and pushed it deep into his duffel, then sighed with relief. Spending so much time in close quarters with his brother made it hard to keep secrets from each other. Their bags were the only private things either of them had. He still couldn't believe his luck that Dean had missed the bottle, but now it was safe.

Sam didn't give himself the luxury of resting and enjoying his relief. If Dean found him kneeling on the floor he'd ask questions or worry, probably both. With an even larger effort, he crawled back onto the bed, this time unable to suppress a loud moan. Now that he'd reached his goal, the pain hit him twice as hard as before. His arm was throbbing and burning, and Sam's head felt close to exploding with pressure.

Harvelle's sounded like a very good plan.

* * *

When Dean returned from the bathroom, Sam was sitting up, swaying, sweating and panting as if he'd been running. "All that just to sit up?" Dean muttered. Maybe he wasn't better after all. "Well, let's get you cleaned up." He went to Sam's good side and leaned down, ignoring his ribs. "Okay, hold on to me. C'mon... Up." 

Sam was really fucking heavy, and it seemed more-so today when Dean wasn't running on adrenaline. Between the two of them, they got Sam hoisted to his feet. He was shaky, and Dean wasn't much better off. "Let's go, only a few steps." Even a few was a few too many, and it took forever, but he got them to the door without mishap. Immediately Dean realized his mistake. He should have put Sam in the tub first, then run the water. Even if he drained it now, it would still be slippery. Nothing he could do now. 

Ducking out from Sam's arm, Dean led his hand to the sink, for something to hold on to. He turned away slightly, to give his brother at least the illusion of privacy. "Well, Sam, let's see about getting you in there without cracking your grapefruit open. Strip." 

* * *

By the time they reached the bathroom, Sam thought there wasn't a single spot in his body that didn't ache. He'd leaned on Dean heavier than intended, but at first Dean had encouraged him to – Dean in protective big brother mode wasn't someone to mess with – then because he really needed the support.

"I think this will be easier if I just sit..." Sam plonked down on the toilet. Unbuttoning his shirt was fine with one hand, unlike buttoning it up where he'd needed Dean's help earlier. He pushed his sweat pants down and regretted that he wasn't wearing jeans: he could have asked Dean to help him with the zipper... One look at his brother told him that this would have been a bad idea. Although they'd only just gotten up, Dean looked close to crashing. 

Standing on shaky legs, Sam took a deep breath. He steadied himself on the rim of the bathtub with his good hand, not doubting that Dean would catch him if he slipped. Dean looked anxious, but he needn't have worried. Sam succeeded in stepping into the tub, and sank into the warm water with a sigh. It made the wound in his arm burn like hell fire and he moaned, but the rest of his body relaxed.

"Thank you," Sam said, meaning it from the depth of his heart. 

Now that he was taken care of for the moment, it was time to look after Dean's needs. 

"Dean," he began, hesitating a little. "When you said I took two Percocets earlier... There's only one left, right?" Sam didn't wait for the confirmation. "I want you to take it. You have to drive and you'll need all the help you can get. Sorry to be so useless here," he added softly, hoping that Dean wouldn't fight him on this.

* * *

Okay, he knew that his brother was undressing just out his peripheral vision. Dean kept his eyes trained somewhere up near the mirror over the sink while remaining on alert to steady Sam if he slipped. The soft rustling of cloth against cloth and cloth against skin seemed so loud. Somehow, Sam stood up and got himself lowered into the water without Dean's help.

How disappointing. Dean glanced at the tan-and-brown sprawl in the tub, then away. Damn, that boy had long legs. There were a couple of meager white towels and wash cloths on a scuffed metal rack; he grabbed a wash cloth and tossed it in Sam's direction. "Here... In case you're modest," he explained with a snort. It wasn't too difficult to let sarcastic flippancy into his voice. It was his go-to method of dealing, after all. The white square of terrycloth probably was barely big enough to cover Sam's 'modesty', anyway.

It was too hot in there, now that the door was closed. Already, sweat was running from his temples and making his t-shirt stick to him. Dean removed his outer layers, hanging the shirts on the hook on the back of the door, and sat, taking Sam's former place. He would give his brother a while to soak, relax and clean himself up before getting to the grisly business of wound care.

Apparently Sam had a second agenda. As soon as he opened his mouth, it was to insist that Dean, rather than himself, take their one remaining Percocet. Dean saw the sense in his argument; that didn't mean he had to like it, or agree. "I dunno. You need it just as bad as I do. And they do make me tired. There were a few times this morning I almost fell asleep, driving. Better we make it there alive." 

Before Sam could question him again, Dean added, "Let's just see how we both are, after... this." Whatever was going on with that wound that was affecting Sam so much, messing with was sure to make worse. Honestly, he didn't think it was a good idea for Sam to have submerged it in the bath water, but it was too late now. 

* * *

Sam wasn't surprised that Dean denied the offer of their one remaining pain pill. "Maybe we could split the Percocet," he suggested. "That would make us both more comfortable and you less tired. I mean it, Dean. I don't want to see you suffer any more than necessary." That argument was easy to turn around on him, but Sam wouldn't give up without at least trying.

"Besides," he grimaced, "I'll need your help again in a minute. There are parts of me that I can't reach with my right hand and that I still want clean." He threw Dean a supposedly mean look. "Modest parts, that is, in case you were worried about your, huh, purity." Sam grinned tiredly and soaped up the wash cloth Dean had thrown him.

His arm was throbbing and he knew that he should have kept it above the water, but the tub was filled to the brink and his legs had been too shaky to kneel or whatever would have kept the wound dry. Then again, with all the dirt clinging to him it probably didn't make a difference except for the pain.

Sam finished washing his face, legs and chest. He felt self-conscious taking care of his male parts, but for once Dean refrained from commenting. Then again, maybe his brother was just waiting...

"Dean? Could you, you know, wash my hair, back, and right side, please?"

* * *

Reluctantly, Dean agreed to splitting the last pill. "Fine, Sam, if it'll get you to shut up." It would be better to drive with a slight buzz and less pain than with no medication at all. It was getting steamier, so Dean pulled his t-shirt off before he sweated it out. They both relaxed in silence for a while longer; then Sam began to wash himself. 

It was impossible not to look at him. Dean slouched back against the cold toilet tank and tried not to anyway. How Sam managed to stay tan, even in winter... Darker skin, inherited from their Dad, he supposed. Dean took after their mother more, in coloring. A few scars marred his body, not many. The one on his bicep was going to be really ugly. The skin around it was angry red, not a good sign, and the wound itself was a twisted half-congealed scab. Dean idly admired the curve of Sam's long, long back as he bent slightly forward. 

Oh! He was washing his junk now. That gave Dean a nice view through the water at Sam's ass. Why would he do that? Tearing his eyes away to look deliberately at the cracks in the drywall up near the ceiling, Dean turned away as much as he could without entirely putting his back to Sam.

Just about then, Sam asked him to finish bathing – washing him. When Dean didn't answer fast enough, Sam took a page from Dean's own book and made some caustic comment about purity. As if! Not since he was fourteen! It seemed to Dean that Sam just might be worried about the same thing, or he wouldn't have been so specific about his body parts. _Hair, back, and right side._

"Fine, fine," Dean put on the grumpy voice. "Start with the hair. And you forgot: someone's gonna have to wash your ass." He got to his knees on the cold, hard tile. One arm, he stretched across the tub to hold Sam up out of the water as he lay back, slowly, abdominal muscles tensing into defined blocks... Fuuuuck. Dean stifled a groan and used the other hand to push Sam's long bangs back from his eyes. "Tilt your head back more." At the same time Sam was doing that, Dean lowered his arm farther so that Sam was almost lying full on his back, other than his bent knees stuck up. Heart palpitating, Dean dipped Sam's head in the water, running his fingers through the strands of his hair. God, he was so trusting, looking up at Dean like an innocent child. 

The position was too difficult to hold – it put pressure on Dean's ribs against the side of the tub, and Sam's weight, though buoyant in the water, tugged on it, too. "Sit up, gotta get the shampoo." A tiny bottle of something sat edge of the sink, which he couldn't reach currently. Dean willed his semi-hard cock to behave before Sam noticed. What the hell! It wasn't like he was a teenager anymore.

* * *

_"And you forgot: someone's gonna have to wash your ass."_

Sam snorted. He'd expected payback for the purity quip, and wasn't disappointed. "Actually, I was getting to that," he smirked. "I didn't think you'd be offering but thanks anyway." The idea of Dean touching his butt sent a flash of desire through his body. Maybe the suggestion was a mistake, but he could still get out of it: Sam was sure that Dean would jump at the chance of not having to wash his brother's ass.

Then Dean began to wash him. He told Sam to bend his head back so he could wet his hair. Sam was sure that Dean took longer than necessary – and the gentle caresses of his hair were most certainly not required, but Sam wasn't complaining. It felt nice.

Smiling to himself, Sam relaxed, trusting that Dean would keep him from sliding into the water and drowning. It was strange how he could be in so much pain at the same time as feeling so good. His cock twitched at Dean's touches. Maybe he should be embarrassed, but right now he didn't care. If his brother noticed, it'd earn him a dry comment, but he could live with that. And he could always retaliate by asking Dean how he knew to distinguish between Sam's flaccid and half-mast size. His smile widened. He might even enjoy the banter and it would distract him from his arm.

Dean told him to sit up so he could lather his hair. Sam did as he was bidden, already missing his brother's hands on him. "Thank you for doing this for me," he said and turned his head to smile at Dean. Frowning at seeing Dean's flushed face, Sam's eyes wandered lower and widened.

_His brother was hard!_

* * *

Well, fuck. Sam had noticed the state of his pants, and he was grinning about it, the freak. Since Dean was already blushing, so rather than stammering like some dumb twat he levelled a glare at Sam and ground out, "Shut up!" 

He lowered his body enough below the edge of the tub to hide his 'problem' and hoped that Sam would just forget about it. If his little brother didn't want him helping any further, then fine, he could just handle it himself! Only, no, Sam couldn't. They'd have to get through this. "Do you want your hair washed or not? Honestly, I don't know why you have to have it long like a girl." The truth was, it was such a part of Sam, Dean would miss the auburn-streaked brown waves if Sam cut it. He removed the lid of the shampoo, poured some into his hand, and set the bottle carefully within reach. "Close your eyes now." 

That was as good a warning as Dean could give Sam. He had to do it now, or it would just be more awkwardness. Reaching out, he smeared streaks of shampoo across Sam's hair and began to work it in, rubbing through the wet, oily strands. It didn't lather well, which told Dean he needed more, so he grabbed the little bottle and dumped another glop on the crown of Sam's head. Now he got some good suds. Dean made sure to get every area; he hated it when he forgot to get the parts right behind his ears. Since Sam's scalp was prone to flaking, he used his fingernails to lightly scratch. The part directly above Sam's wide forehead was the trickiest; Dean would be damned if he was going to get soap in his brother's eyes. 

"Okay, now rinse." Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's back to let him know to lie back. This was going to suck balls, having to hold him _and_ get his hair clean. Sam let himself lean back slowly. Oh, Dean shouldn't have looked but he did. Laying against his thigh, Sam's cock was plumped and pulsing, the thick head peeking out from the foreskin. Pretty sure this, substantial as it was, wasn't the fully extended version, Dean remarked drily, "Ha. Someone's got half a stalk." With that, he put his good hand on Sam's forehead and dipped his soapy hair into the water. 

* * *

_"Ha. Someone's got half a stalk."_

Sam had relaxed into Dean's care and even ignored his brother's comment about his long hair, but Dean remarking on his growing erection made his eyes snap open. It wasn't a particularly good time because Dean was dipping his hair into the water at this moment. Sam lost his balance and slipped lower, not much, but enough to get his – open – mouth under the waterline.

He coughed and spluttered for a minute, hoping that the water on his face would hide the tear tracks; god, it hurt so bad! He was angry, not at Dean but at himself, not only for getting himself shot in the first place, but also for his overreaction to Dean's ribbing and what his brother would make out of it. Add that Dean would feel guilty for not keeping Sam upright, and Sam knew he had to resort to a diversionary tactic.

"Warm water, dude," he scoffed. "Which, of course, you wouldn't know because you've either just squeezed one off when you shower or you shower cold to keep a lid on your libido!"

Sam grinned slyly. "I hadn't expected you to be impressed to the point of almost letting me drown, though."

* * *

If the situation were any less dire, Dean would have laughed at Sam for freaking out over his observation. This felt like 'them', calling each other out Bitch/Jerk style, other than the disconcerting sexual edge. 

"Oh for Chr-! Who said I was impressed?" Dean retorted. "No one said Jack and the Beanstalk here!" He hauled Sam out of the water, beginning to shake. It seemed like all the strength had gone out of his arm, pain radiating from his side. One benefit of that: passion killer. But he couldn't let accusations like that, teasing or not, go unanswered. He waited till Sam finished coughing. 

"Hey, I have a libido, damn straight, and I deal with it. Which, if I might say, is better than trying to stuff it under the rug. No pun intended. Like I've said a dozen times, when I need sex, I go get it. Dunno why you keep yourself all celibate for months on end." On some level, Dean understood the choice in the matter. He just couldn't get why anyone would make _that_ their choice. He decided to stop thinking about it before it broke his brain, and grabbed the soap. "Alright, turn that way." He indicated that Sam should face the back wall, away from him. If he really did have to wash Sam's ass, he didn't think he wanted those eyes on him while he plied the soap. 

* * *

That hurt. Sam swallowed before answering slowly, "I just can't imagine having sex just for... something physical. I need the emotional connection." Of course it was out of the question to admit that Dean was the only one he could think of sharing this connection. "Sorry," he sighed. "I guess I'm off my game here."

He turned when Dean told him to, relieved that the new position didn't permit them to stare at each others' groins. His relief increased ten-fold when he remembered Dean's announcement to wash his butt. Sam's dick twitched, hard. As teenagers, they'd 'fooled around' a lot, as Dean called it. To Sam, it had been much more than that, but he'd never told his brother. From the first time Dean had brought him off, Sam had been aware of an uncanny desire to have his asshole touched. One day, he'd asked Dean to give him a finger, and the intensity of being stroked inside had completely blown him away. If the memory made him hard already, how would Dean's hand on his butt make him feel? 

No way he could let that happen. "Just my back and my arm," he announced. "And then we can share our pill and be off again."

Bad choice of words, he thought, but he couldn't take them back. Taking a deep breath, Sam mentally prepared himself for his brother's hands on his back.

* * *

While his own philosophy wasn't the same, Dean did actually, intellectually, understand what Sam was telling him. He had the same craving, bone deep, so buried and impossible that it hurt to think about. It was just that he refused to deny himself; to do so and pine was worse than a hundred small moments of... less than total fulfilment. "Nah, don't apologize. To each their own, I guess. But I'll tell you, blueballs and lonely nights are gonna catch up to you." 

This he said to Sam's back, which his brother had turned after stipulating, 'back and arm only'. That kid's torso was so long, and the extension of it past his waist to his buttcheeks only made it more. It had to be some idealized male thing, and... Oh but god, Dean just wanted to lean forward, just a little further, kiss and lick those shoulders, and down, down, to skim his hands along those miles of skin, make himself and Sammy feel so damned good... But he couldn't. Again he ignored the tingles in his belly and groin. So sex was out. Sam had just said it, he didn't do casual. Obviously his emotional connection wasn't going to be from 'them – together'; Sam was holding out for the right woman. But Dean could wash that body. It was his job. 

Fishing for the soap, Dean raised his hand to lather up Sam's back. Sliding the bar around, his other hand soon joined the first, up-and-down motions rounding out over the shoulder and... He didn't dare dip too low. As gently as he could, Dean nudged Sam's injured arm up out of the way and washed around his left side, just as far as the ribs. He repeated it on the right, continuing up into his armpit where he had sweated like a pig. After some attention there, Dean curled his arm to reach Sam's chest, telling himself he would only do what Sam couldn't have reached for himself. Head bowed, hair falling forward to hide his face, Sam sat motionless – he wasn't even breathing... Till Dean ran the flat of his hand over his nipple. It hardened, the tiny point of it dragging under his callouses as Dean withdrew.

"Oops," Dean muttered, low, to keep his voice from trembling. "Sorry 'bout that." He became aware of how ragged his respirations were, how he opened his mouth slightly to take in more air. He finally dropped the soap, the pretence of it all, grabbed the washcloth and began to sluice water over his brother's shining skin, rinsing the dirt and lather and the touch of his hands away. Shivers chased all up and down Dean, from chest to knees and back; he recognized lust, alright. His own nipples tightened to dusky-pink raised discs. Invisible spiderwebs of heat criss-crossed his body. He had never felt more protective than right now in taking care of his injured little brother – it was doing weird things to his psyche. 

In his mind's eye, Dean saw the two of them go off on each other, pure porn, grabbing butts and cock like animals with prey, kissing, biting, and him shedding his jeans and climbing into the tub, _claiming_. When had he ever used that word? He'd never needed to. But Sam was Dean's and Dean was Sam's, even if they never touched each other again. He saw _himself_ , eyes closed in ecstasy, mouth open, it didn't even matter if they made it to fucking or who did it... They belonged to each other. He wanted Sam open and gasping under him; he didn't know how, but men did that and they were smart enough to... 

"Shit." Now he was so hard it felt like his cock would split its skin, and that his balls were simmering twin cores of molten lead. That was bad enough. His hands were still on Sam, and Dean had no idea how long he'd been kneeling there, mouth-breathing and rhythmically... Yes, he was – he was running his palms all over that wet, slick flesh, even below the water. There was simply no way to blow off the fact that he had his good hand on Sam's butt, squeezing the firm cheek under the warm water. The shock was almost fear... That he had ruined everything. Dean's eyes slid up from where he was fixated on Sam's narrow ass, slightly spread as it was against the bottom of the tub, taking in an incredible erection stabbing upward from Sam's groin, and his brother's slanted eyes, hazel flashing blue and orange sparks, luminous upon him. 

"Sammy..." He throat was desert dry. "We..." _can't._ But he did. Closing his eyes, Dean gave in to it, but he did it slowly so that his sensible, not-a-slut-like-Dean brother could stop him, sliding his hand from the small of Sam's back, over his hip, down into the vee of his groin. "Everything..." he hissed. 

* * *

Sam had managed to relax a little while Dean was washing his back, but when he touched his chest and grazed his nipple, Sam had to fight to suppress a groan. Even though he succeeded in remaining quiet his body betrayed him; his nipple stiffened and his dick went instantly full staff.

Dean apologized, but it didn't stop him from squeezing Sam's butt, then sneaking a hand around him, trailing for his groin. This time, Sam failed to keep the deep groan in his throat. It didn't seem to matter: Dean's words didn't sound quite coherent, either. Not sure what was going on, Sam tried to concentrate on thinking. Okay, there was one possible explanation for his brother's weird behavior; Dean was trying to distract him from his pain.

At this point, Sam's desire for Dean was desperate enough that he wouldn't even pretend to put up a fight. However, he'd just announced that he didn't have sex unless deep emotions were involved, and his brother must never know what Sam felt for him...

Dean's hand all but touched his erection and Sam's thoughts came to a grinding halt as his instincts threatened to take over. He wanted Dean, so much, and _now_ , but... However awkward this might turn out later, he'd buy Dean's excuse of seducing him in order to lessen the pain. It was what they'd done as teenagers. They hadn't done anything like it since back then, but it wasn't difficult to convince himself that his injury accounted for a change in circumstances.

"Wait," he gasped. "Help me get out of the tub first." The water was grimy and leaving the tub would give Sam a minute to think... Not that he needed to think any more, his subconscious had apparently made the decision for him. 'Help me get out of the tub _first'_ indeed!

* * *

Right. Out of the tub. Brain, Dean. It was the little one doing all the thinking again. "Right, of course..." Dean made himself pull his hands back; he pulled the plug from the drain, and stood. Now Sam would see how hard he was – his jeans were painfully tight over the crotch and Dean was desperate to get out of them. He pasted a cocky-ass smirk on his face and tipped his chin defensively. But first things first. Dean bent down slowly. It was going to be awkward, with Sam slippery and unable to do much to help. And Dean wasn't much better off in negotiating his brother's long limbs and dead-weight in the slick space. 

After a couple of false starts, between the two of them they got Sam to his feet. Dean held on to him tight when he stepped from the tub to the floor, not minding that his upper body got all wet in the process. It would've been just their luck if Sam fell and cracked his grapefruit open right about now. But he didn't. Picking a towel from the rack, Dean used it to dry Sam off cursorily. He hated having that layer between them, craving Sam's skin again. Tell it to his cock, but the moment seemed to have passed. "Uh, did you want to wrap this around yourself?" He was staring at the general region of Sam's neck right now, willing himself to leave his brother's body alone. Although Sam hadn't stopped him before, and his body was responsive, Sam had put the brakes on, good excuse or not. 

"C'mon, towel or no towel? Sammy... I... I suppose you should get dressed." Dean couldn't keep the regret out his voice. 

* * *

Was this what they called mixed signals? Sam wasn't sure how to read Dean. A few minutes ago, his brother's hand had aimed for his dick, and now that Sam was out of the water, all of a sudden Dean turned modest? With a raging hard-on that his jeans couldn't even begin to hide?

Sam swallowed back his disappointment. They'd been so close to... to doing what they never should have done as teenagers and what they really shouldn't do as adults. Still, he wanted it so much...

Dean's upper body was wet and his nipples had tightened into sharp pink peaks. Sam felt drawn to them; he wanted to lick and suck and make love to them... and to the bulge in Dean's trousers... He felt a surge of fluid trickling from his slit and moaned softly. He didn't doubt that Dean had the same idea, if for totally different reasons: for Dean, sex was about getting off; for Sam, it was about love. 

_'Dean doesn't need to find out that you love him,'_ a voice in Sam's mind suggested seductively. _'Besides, he never lets you decide anything anyway...'_

Sam nodded to himself.

"You suppose I should get dressed," he said deliberately. "Is that what you want, Dean?"

* * *

"What?" Dean stalled. Jesus, he felt so stupid. The only words he could form were short and garbled. He didn't know anything anymore. Sam's sharp eyes darted from his face to his crotch to his erect nipples and back, and Sam _moaned_. 

"No! No, it isn't what I want, you dweeb." Dean was leaking, just like Sammy was, his body a mess of pinpricks and shivers. Blinking slowly, he looked up into Sam's eyes, taking in the flush over his cheekbones and parted lips. "I'm trying to not have a repeat of last night. And then on the other hand, that's exactly what I _am_ trying for. Don't you get that?" It wasn't very cool of Dean to lay the bulk of it on Sam's doorstep right now. Well, his brother could shoot him down if he wanted. Lord knew, he was damned good at that. 

"I can't keep my hands off you. Well, I _can,_ but I don't wanna. Fuck-all what's supposed to be right and wrong, Sam. We're not like other people. In everything else, we make our own rules. Why shouldn't we... have each other?" Nostrils flared wide to take in his brother's scent, Dean moved in closer, his arms closing around Sam's chest. When he spoke again, his lips were within a hair's breadth of Sam's jaw, where he knew Sam would sense the heat and movement. "If it has to be love for you, then let be. Whatever you need. Never think it's less, over here. I've tried to forget our younger days, and I can't. If I should die without..." 

Dean knew he should shut up, should never let anyone have this kind of leverage on him for free. He pushed his hand down the raised muscle along Sam's spine, pausing at the small of his back. "You remember...?" Twisting his wrist, Dean inched his fingertips toward Sam's crease. He flicked his tongue out and licked the long tendon up the side of Sam's neck. "Huh?" Dancing them around, Dean got Sam's back to the wall and pushed against him, not even caring if he hurt himself. The moan that escaped him then was so raw and bruised and needy, Dean would have thought it was a creature run through with silver or iron, had he not the remains of it ripping at his throat.

* * *

A repeat of last night? Sam frowned. The night before had been a dream. Or maybe not? Was this a dream? Or a fevered fantasy? It couldn't be real, right? Dean pressing him against the wall, telling him how much he wanted him, that he'd die without...

Sam knew exactly how his brother – dream brother? – felt. When Dean licked along his neck, he was lost. Even though this Dean didn't reciprocate Sam's feelings, he allowed, encouraged Sam to admit his love. As much as he wanted to be one with the whole of Dean, he'd settle for the physical union. It was more than he'd ever hoped to have.

The heat in Dean's eyes matched the heat in Sam's groin. It increased a thousandfold when Dean's hand approached his crack. Suddenly, Sam couldn't breathe any longer. Of course he remembered! How could he ever forget? His hips spasmed forward at the sweet memory of Dean's finger in him oh-so-many years ago!

"Oh god, Dean," he moaned. He put his hands on his brother's lower back and pulled him closer. His dick was chafing against the coarse denim, but he didn't perceive it as pain. Strangely, the pain radiating from his arm had also dimmed. Endorphins, he though distractedly.

"I want you so fucking much!" 

* * *

_"I want you so fucking much!"_

That was it. Tangling his fingers into Sam's wet hair, Dean moved their faces into alignment. Stubble scraped; he had to tilt his head back to reach Sam's spit-shiny lips. The low, throbbing heat spiked below his waist as their lips touched. It was like every other time – all the things he held back poured into what he was about to experience. Licking his lips first, Dean surged into the kiss, and moaned into Sam's mouth. "MMmm, Sammy... Feels so good." It always had felt like more than kissing with Sam. Like eyes were supposed to be the view to the soul, Dean felt like his mouth had as much to do with his sexual self as his cock. At first they traded sweet, individual kisses, but Sam was intense and Dean turned it back on him until they were clinging to each other and sucking at each other's mouths, tongues twined. He couldn't stand being so compressed for one more second; he took a second to work a hand between them to undo his belt and zipper, sighing as the pressure eased, just a little. 

Dean's hips were already pitching. So far he'd kept them upright by keeping Sam pinned to the wall. As much as his knees where starting to shake, they weren't going to be vertical much longer. Sam's cock was huge and burning-hot against him, his hands splayed across Dean's back to keep him right _there_. "Clean now, Sam..." Dean's voice broke. He slid his fingers further into Sam's crack, till he felt the change in skin texture, and the crinkled lines of Sam's tight little pucker. "I'm gonna..." The way he licked around Sam's lips and into his mouth left nothing to the imagination. "...if you want that." 

* * *

Again, Sam's head started to spin – but in a totally different sense than before. When Dean began to kiss him, tentatively first, Sam felt what blood he had left in his body rushing downward, from his brain to his groin. Dean licked and nipped at Sam's lips before demanding entrance, and Sam let him in. His brother's tongue explored his mouth, his teeth and gums, his palate, catching his breath in short gasps between moans. 

Sam stood passive for a few minutes while he gave himself over to Dean. Eventually, Dean's heat caught up with him, and Dean's probing tongue found an equally hungry counterpart in Sam's. Sam pushed Dean's tongue back into his brother's mouth and did a little exploring on his own, which left both men moaning and gasping.

Dean broke the kiss, very reluctantly, to take care of his pants. This was a problem Sam didn't have, but as soon as Dean drew back to fumble with his belt and zipper Sam felt the loss deeply, no more friction for his needy erection. Then Dean had freed his dick and leaned back against him...

"Nnuuhh..." Sam's groan sounded as desperate as he felt. Clinging to Dean's butt, he pulled his brother closer. Regardless what this did to his arm, he had no intention of letting Dean go again. Ever. He pushed against Dean's hip, rubbing frantically and offering his own hip and abdomen at the same time. His breathing hitched as Dean's hand on his lower back slid deeper.

Sam shuddered violently when a finger touched his hole, making it contract and flutter, and sending out a spasm through his body as well as leaking a surge of fluid from his balls. 

"Dean! Nnuughh! Oh yes! Please..." he swallowed hard and looked into Dean's eyes. They were almost black with passion, which aroused him even more. He couldn't wait to feel Dean inside him, had secretly dreamed of this ever since he'd had his brother's finger for the first time, but never dared to believe it might happen. However... Suddenly, he was insecure. Was Dean offering this only for Sam's benefit? 

"Do you want this, too?" Sam's voice was hoarse. 

* * *

"You have no idea how much I want it," Dean hissed. "Gonna eat your ass out so good..." Sam's hole had a life of its own, fluttering, clenching or loosening every time Dean moved his fingers. Damn, Sam was a good kisser – where the hell had he learned that, all those tongue tricks? "My god, you're a handful!" He didn't only mean Sam's dick. Now that he'd stated his intent, Dean grasped the leaking erection, which fit perfectly in his fist. Eyes flicking between the hand job he hadn't planned but was getting them both off and his face, Dean licked down Sam's chest to his nipple and caught it in his teeth. With his jeans pushed down now, they slid easily against each other's bodies. If it were anyone else, Dean might have been sheepish over the thick strings of pre-cum his slit was oozing all over Sam's groin, but it was so sexy, and Sam, if anything, was even wetter. He could almost let go right now, and Sam seemed ever more frantic. But he wanted... _they_ wanted...

"We need to get ourselves in the bed before it's too late," Dean said, bringing his hand in to tug gently at Sam's balls. He was close. "C'mon, man, walk. Need to do this right." Whatever that meant. There was no right, but at a time like this it didn't matter any more. His body was flush with endorphins and adrenaline, heart pounding so fast – if he'd had to, he probably could have carried Sam and not felt it till later. Dean opened the door and cold air from the room hit him. "Go fast!" Kicking off his jeans and boxers, he got them to the bed and tucked under the blankets as quickly as he dared. He didn't want to take his hands off Sam for a minute. 

In their rapidly-warming cocoon, Dean wound his limbs through his brother's. Never in his life had he felt this free, this _buzzed_ to be with anyone, and he was stone sober. Sam's body was amazing – not that he'd be telling him in words any time soon, but he could tell by running his own hands over every bit of it he could reach, and kiss him some more, and grind against him naked and unencumbered. He was just about to tell Sam to turn over when he thought of his brother's arm... So Dean climbed over him instead. He licked the bump of bone at the back of Sam's neck and then, drew his tongue down and down, wiggling himself down the bed.

* * *

Sam's hold on reality had vaporized. Here he was, kissing and rubbing against Dean as if there was no tomorrow. He wasn't sure what exactly his brother meant with his announcement of 'eating his ass out' – it couldn't possibly be what it sounded like – but his hole clenched tightly. Whatever Dean had planned would blow his mind, that much he knew.

When Dean wrapped his hand around Sam's dick, he thought he'd lose it right there. Sure that he hadn't been this aroused since their teenage fumblings, he watched helplessly as Dean moved his mouth down to lick at his nipple and graze it with his teeth. He hissed and felt a string of liquid drool from his erection. It brought him even closer to the finish but, tears of exertion in his eyes, he fought to hold back.

Dean's suggestion that they take this to the bedroom came not a second too early. He had no idea how they made it, walking was near impossible with the raging hardness between their legs, but only a few seconds later he found himself on the bed, under the covers, his limbs entwined with – suddenly naked! – Dean's in a Gordian knot.

They were slick with sweat and pre-cum, rubbing against each other, licking, sucking, stroking every surface or body part they could get at. The scent alone was overwhelming, and Sam couldn't get enough of tasting Dean, touching him, trying to bring about these incredible sounds only Dean could make and that never failed to push him close to the brink.

Then, Dean climbed over him and started licking at the back of his neck, then down his spine. Sam shuddered with delight – and then his sluggish brain realized that his brother wasn't stopping when he reached his lower back. No, he went on, aiming for...

Stars exploded before Sam's eyes. This couldn't be true! They'd never done this before, and only a few minutes ago even the thought of Dean's tongue on his hole...

Sam cried out, "Oh god, Dean, Dean, _DEAN!"_ His voice turned into desperate sobs. "Pleeaase...!"

* * *

Sam was writhing and moaning, just as Dean had imagined him doing so many times. It had to be the hottest thing he'd ever seen. All the muscles of Sam's back and shoulders were tense, tight, shifting with every move, a rolling canvas as near-perfect male beauty that was his to look at, his to sculpt and mold with every touch of his hands and every swipe of his tongue. And not just that, it was Sam, his Sam, his brother, his... lover. 

He begged, voice hitching upwards and repeating Dean's name. By then, Dean had reached the small of Sam's back, right above the twin dimples. Sam arched as Dean's tongue licked over the ultra-sensitive nerves at the base of his spine, effectively pushing his butt closer to his brother's face. Sure, Sam had mostly been the more vocal of the two, but now, every breath coming out of him was accented by a grunt or moan, all of it hitting Dean's libido so hard he had to keep biting the inside of his mouth to distract himself. "Sammy, don't break my nose, I'm going to..." Dean stuck his tongue into the slot that was the top of Sam's crack, moving down... down... His hand gripped tightly around Sam's ass cheeks, pulling them apart and exposing his most intimate place.

When he licked, _there_ , Sam froze. Dean grinned to himself. He'd never done this before either, although he'd seen it on a few pornos and one especially kinky barmaid had once offered to do it to him, but he had declined. When it came down to it, an asshole was still an asshole, but knowing this was Sam's and the pure erotic pleasure it was giving him got Dean through it. He licked the tightly clenched entrance, already knowing from the way it reacted – the way Sam reacted – to his finger, that this would take some skill. Involuntarily, he was sure, Sam tightened up and so Dean chased that little pucker inwards, prying at it with the tip of his tongue. He had to chase after Sam, who couldn't stay still for the life of him. In all his moving around, Sam got mostly turned onto his stomach, thighs spread wide and ass tipped up. The debauched picture of it, and the fact that his brother tended to be so reserved about this sort of thing, made Dean's eyes water. He could have shot his load twenty times by now, but he made himself wait.

"You like it?" Dean groaned. It was easier with Sam on his belly, easier to follow the rhythmic pulses of his hips against the sheet. "I think you love it." Sliding his arm far up between Sam's legs, he grasped his cock from underneath. It felt like a steel bar, only it was hot skin instead of metal, wet at the tip with leaking secretions. "Go on, Sammy... you can fuck my hand if you want." Dean laid another series of licks around the border of Sam's hole. It was looser now, and Dean thrust his tongue in as far as he could shove it. Dark, bitter exploded on his taste buds, and again he didn't care. So bad, he wanted Sam to get off on what he was doing to him. It had to feel good for Sammy, too, judging from the way his hips jumped, thighs beginning to shake. His balls rested against Dean's forearm, the sac pulled taut around the swollen contents. Just as it was sometimes disconcerting to have Sam be taller than he was now, it was the same with the fact that Sam's cock was a good inch longer, and his balls swung like a pair of flesh-colored Christmas tree ornaments.

How Sam was managing not to cum yet, Dean couldn't say, because he was sure he'd never seen his brother so far gone, totally out of his mind, eyes going wide or squeezing shut, his face and neck red, body sheened with sweat. Remembering something from years back, Dean raised his free hand and, giving his tongue a rest, slid the tip of his finger just past the still-tight ring muscle. "Please, Sammy," he heard himself say, "please... wanna see you cum, baby... go on... I've got you.... 's alright..." Sam looked back over his shoulder at him, still moaning but wordless right then. What could he possibly be waiting for?

* * *

Whatever Dean was doing down there, Sam was reduced to grunting, cursing, and moaning. His brain was mush and his world consisted only of his lower body, legs excluded.

His dick was throbbing so hard that Sam feared he might actually injure himself, overload and burst the cavernosa. Oh god, he needed to cum so bad! On the other hand, feeling his brother's tongue on his hole, making love to it, was so good that he wanted to hold back for ever. Even the tiniest touch sent flames of desire up his spine and down to his balls, which were already painfully tight.

Dean pulled his ass cheeks apart and began to lick and suck on his tiny pucker. Sam thought he'd die with the waves of pleasure crashing through him. If there was indeed such a thing as heaven, this had to be it. He moaned wantonly and couldn't help pushing his ass up against Dean's mouth, wordlessly begging him for more.

He wasn't disappointed. Sam froze when Dean's tongue entered him, tentatively at first, then probing deeper, and he went wild with need, screaming when Dean began to fuck him with his tongue. His brother asked him if he liked it, but Sam was too breathless to speak, much less formulate a coherent answer, even such a simple one as 'yes'.

Suddenly, Dean's hand wrapped around his dick, and Sam knew he couldn't hold back any longer. It was as if he was watching himself now, totally gone in his ecstasy. Eerily, the final ascent to his climax wasn't the sudden explosion he might have expected with his level of arousal, but it was a gentle slope – where gentle was the wrong word, but it went so incredibly slow that Sam thought it would kill him.

He turned his head to look back at Dean, his whole body shaking. When Dean begged him to cum, Sam knew that nothing could stop him. Then his brother slipped a finger inside him and Sam's world exploded. Screaming into the pillow, he spasmed and writhed as seemingly endless amounts of white hot fluid shot from him. It lasted forever, the intensity of the feeling frying his synapses until he collapsed on the mattress, a boneless and sobbing mess.

"Dean..."

* * *

Even before his peak hit him, Sam was screaming his head off. So responsive, that boy. So good! Dean would tell him someday, but for now, he kept fingering Sam's hole, licking around his finger, pumping his hand in time to Sam fucking his cock through Dean's fist. It went impossibly harder, thicker at the base, and then what seemed like endless strings of white juice burst from it, while Sam cried out Dean's name and ground down and clutched his finger with his ass. How that felt so good for Sam, Dean wasn't quite sure, but as long as Sam wanted it and it made him this crazy with lust, he would not hesitate.

Watching his brother cum so hard, Dean barely stopped himself from following. All that emotion and need coming to a climax, his body shooting out the liquid manifestation of pleasure, it was like a flipped switch, leaving Sam limp and blissed out with rapture all over his face. Dean crawled his way up Sam's body, taking him into his arms and holding him while he shook and gasped for breath. "Sammy... that was so fucking amazing. Loved watching you cum. Should see yourself."

Dean didn't kiss him, not after that, but he did place gentle nips to his collarbone and up his neck. Or, as gentle as he could, still rock-hard and aching. Sam's cream had gotten all over himself, and Dean slid against him easily. "I'm so hard, Sammy... need to get off. Please touch me... if you can." There was the wound, Sam half-conscious with afterglow, and would he even consider it? Dean just rocked his hips, his cock still throbbing hard from the earlier display, and from the close contact. As much as he wanted Sam's hand on him, or whatever, if Sam was too tired or otherwise couldn't help him, Dean knew what to do. 

* * *

"Dean," Sam could only whisper. He felt empty and fulfilled at the same time, and completely wrung out. Never had sex had this effect on him before – because it had been so much more than sex: Dean had allowed him to accept his emotions, his love.

Dean's body was curling against his, rocking slowly, and Sam could feel his brother's desperation. 

"I'd love to touch you..." he choked out, his body overwhelmed even if his senses were slowly returning. "Not sure if I can, though..." Sam tried to raise a hand but even that small movement was beyond his capabilities.

An idea was forming in his mind and despite being utterly exhausted, it made his dick twitch feebly. 

"But you could... I'm ready for you... Dean, will you make love to me?"

* * *

_"...make love to me?"_ The words took the edge off Dean's impending orgasm, which had been so near he could've cum simply by loosening his jaw and grinding down a little harder. Hadn't they just? Sam's screams almost still hung in the air. The thick, salt-funk tang of semen, too. Well, it was true Sam had been more on the receiving end, but if rimming your brother wasn't showing him love, Dean didn't know what was. Yes, he did. He'd just been informed. Sam wanted more. He wanted sex, the full-on thing. And when two men did it... 

"Wh-what?" Dean choked out. "I–I've never, to a dude... What if I... Sam, I will _not_ do anything to hurt you!" 

He knew Sam would argue. Not only that, he'd take it as rejection. Use your logic, Dean. "We don't have lube. There's spit and pre-cum but... for our first time...?!" Dean couldn't believe he'd said that, and turned bright red. If Sam wanted to get fucked, then Dean should pound him into the mattress and not equivocate like a little bitch. His hips seemed to think so, rolling and thrusting against Sam's lower body, softening cock and all. 

"I mean, I'll do it. If that's what you want. But you're hurt enough without your ass being-" Dean was thinking, 'torn up' but he said, "sore, don't you think?" He leaned in, desperate to kiss Sam, but at the last minute remembered where his mouth had been and latched on to his neck, instead. 

God, this was bizarre, trying to coerce someone to _not_ do it with him. His balls were so heavy now, that 'blueballs' feeling starting to set in. How they would be able to pull up enough to heave his pent-up load, he didn't know. It was going to be exquisitely painful. Dean whined at the pure physical need, desperate to get off, and desperate to do the right thing – whatever that was – by Sam. 

* * *

The moment the words had left Sam's mouth he knew it had been a mistake. Dean's reaction confirmed it only seconds later.

'Never to a dude.' 

'I'll do it. If that's what _you_ want.'

Then Dean leaned closer as if he were to kiss his lips, but diverted to Sam's neck at the last moment.

It hurt. But what had he expected? For Dean, this was about getting off, not about love; Dean had made that crystal clear. It wasn't his fault that Sam wanted more. Quite the opposite, the gift Dean had given him by allowing him for once to live out his emotions was more than Sam could ever return. Besides, Dean had a good point about the lube. He pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on his brother's needs.

"You're right," Sam whispered. He tilted his head back to give Dean better access to his neck for a minute, then gently pushed him away and onto his back. "Let me..." 

His brother's dick felt impossibly hard in his hand. Hard and hot, ready to burst. Sam tried to lean toward Dean's groin but his arm sent him an angry warning. 

"Wish I could taste you," he whispered full of regret, "but it'll have to wait, after..." His good hand gave Dean a squeeze as he stroked downward. It earned him a deep groan and his brother thrust into his hand, urging him to go faster.

"You know," Sam continued while speeding up his strokes, "like earlier. When we were kids. I loved to swipe up your cream with my fingers and lick them clean. Do you remember that?"


	5. Chapter 5

Whatever he thought, and Dean could sense Sam's flash of unhappiness over his refusal, he saw the reason and didn't push. After a moment, he pushed Dean off him, onto his back, and settled into an efficient hand job. 

Or, that's what it would have been, if Sam hadn't started talking. The reminder of younger Sam licking Dean's spunk from his fingers was like a kick start to his need. He shouldn't, shouldn't think about that, but back then, as now, it was sweet, so goddamned _special_. "Yeah, Sammy... I'll never forget it. Wanna see yah do it now, too..." Dean thrust into his brother's tight grip, the feel of those long fingers so different from his memories of those days gone by.

And he had his own fantasy-memory to tell Sam, too. He felt like something, both in his groin and inside himself, was going to break. "Remember when... we... got more experimental and we... blew each other?" Tossing his head, Dean let his thighs fall apart, hooking one leg over Sam's. "When I took you in... and you came... And I held on to you, with your dick in my mouth... Uh!!" Sam twisted his wrist or something, "till you gave me your second load?" He had leaked so much, Sam's palm was slick with it, making squelchy, slapping noises as it slid up and down, base to tip. 

There were plenty more memories. Dean had wanted more and more from Sam, and his brother imitated him, like so much else in life. And hadn't he learned this very thing from Dean himself, too? "Please, Sam... Faster... So close now..." Dean's abdominal muscles were cramping, his hips flexing, every push shoving him toward the cliff he just _needed_ to fall from. In the end, he opened his mouth, head back and back sharply arched, giving himself over to Sam's fist, his rhythm. "Gnnnn... aaaaarrrhh!" Dean groaned. His balls compressed painfully, but at the same time it was pure pleasure, thick ropes of seed spurting all over his chest. 

For long moments, Dean could do nothing but lie there, blinking. His release had flooded from him, and the aftershocks and chemicals flooded his system now. "Uunnh, Sammy... Came so hard." He remembered what his brother had said. "Wanna taste it? Wanna lick it up?"

* * *

Apparently Dean was happy to share his own memories while Sam kept pumping him. Oh yes, Sam remembered only too well what his brother's mouth had felt on him. "How could I ever forget that!" He squeezed his eyes shut as the memory sent a sweet shiver to his loins. There was no way he could get it up again, but it stoked his need to make this good for Dean.

Dean begged him to stroke faster, and Sam complied immediately. Faster, yes, but he went by his own rhythm. Here was another memory: Dean begging and cursing Sam to move up to Dean's speed, and Sam refusing him, continuing slowly, until his brother had almost passed out with the intensity of his delayed climax. Sam wouldn't delay things now, Dean was too far gone for that, but Sam loved seeing him out of control, begging for more, not able to impose his own will on his little brother.

Sam added a little twist to the glans on each up-stroke, and noted with satisfaction that Dean didn't fight him. He gripped his brother tighter – and then Dean groaned and warm spunk shot from his slit in three strong bursts, followed by weaker ones until the flood was reduced to a string of drops on the tip.

Suddenly, he felt sick. Sure, he'd given Dean pleasure, but it had been just that, physical release. He shouldn't have let Dean lick him earlier. It had been so wrong to tell his brother about his love, and he could never take it back now. How would they be able to work together? He'd just sacrificed a future at Dean's side for a moment of bliss. Surely, Dean wouldn't want him around now that he knew what Sam felt for him. Hadn't he already expressed his disgust with Sam's desires? And yet Dean was still offering himself to Sam. 

_"Wanna taste it? Wanna lick it up?"_

Sam smiled, almost mechanically, hoping that his blissed-out brother wouldn't notice. He scooped up some of the sticky goo with his fingers and licked at them. It tasted like chalk, but he gave his best to make an enthusiastic face.

The sharp glance Dean gave him didn't look convinced. Time for plan B. Sam grimaced. "Sorry, my arm." It wasn't even a lie: now that the adrenalin was ebbing from his system, he felt the pain return with a vengeance.

"Maybe we should just go."

* * *

Something was off. Even the endorphin-induced euphoria couldn't prevent Dean from noticing when Sam went from enthusiastic to... Performing. Of course, his arm. Dean's guts tensed unpleasantly. He sat up, moving Sam gently aside and then took off to the bathroom on unsteady legs for their clothes. 

Dean washed the sticky fluids off himself and dressed in there, as quickly as he could. Massive amounts of guilt came crushing down on him. Why was he so irresponsible? He hadn't checked Sam's arm or cleaned it even once yet, instead, allowing them to get wrapped up in the exhaustion and pain he'd been more than well-trained to deal with, and then... sex. Sex or love, he didn't know. Usually the two were entirely separate things for him, but Dean felt how he felt about Sam, and it was both. He loved him, and he wanted him.

Back in his armor of jeans and two shirts, Dean padded out on bare feet, Sam's clothes in hand, which he placed next to his brother. He opened the first aid kit, finding supplies to tend to Sam's wound. "Alright, Sam," he said to his brother, who hadn't moved. "Fix up your arm first, or dress first?" 

Lying there slumped, Sam looked utterly miserable. Dean hated the feeling of helplessness that washed over him. At least part of the reason his brother was so unhappy had to do with him, he knew that much just by reading Sam's body language. "I'm sorry!" he blurted. "I took advantage of you being hurt. It felt so real. Like you wanted me, too. I'll never do it again, I swear, Sam."

* * *

Shit, shit, shit. Dean went to the bathroom without saying another word. Sam sat back dejectedly. What had he done? Looking down his body, he snorted with disgust. He should have kept it in his pants, but no, he'd ruined his relationship with his brother for a few minutes of lust. 

Scowling with regret and self-hate, he struggled to get to his feet, then rummaged around in his duffel on the other bed for a dirty shirt to wipe off the sticky mess on his chest and belly. Trust his luck, some of the stuff had already dried in his chest hair, and he wiped at it angrily, almost welcoming the pain it caused his arm. He threw the shirt in a corner of the room and slumped back on the bed.

What the hell was taking Dean so long? Just as Sam was about to yell for his brother, Dean returned. Of course, he was fully dressed, obviously determined not to tempt Sam again. All Dean seemed to be interested in was getting them out of here as fast as possible. It was the right thing to do, and in a way, Sam was glad they wouldn't have to talk about this, but...

_Why was Dean apologizing?_ It was he, Sam, who was to blame for the whole mess!

"No! Dean, that's not true. You didn't take advantage of me. I... wanted it... you!" Oh god, and how much he had wanted Dean! But his brother was right: it had been a mistake and they could never do it again.

"Dean, please..." Sam swallowed at the pain in Dean's eyes. "None of this was your fault. Please, believe me!" He reached out with his good hand to touch Dean's face, scared of being slapped away, but his brother just looked at him until Sam lowered his eyes.

"I..." He took a deep breath. "My arm first. And then let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

This sucked, and not in a good way. Sam denied what Dean had done, taking the blame himself, which was so wrong! Dean was the older one; it was his responsibility to watch over Sam, take care of him and protect him. When Sam reached out and laid his fingers on Dean's cheek, Dean couldn't even speak. Those hazel eyes, while not teary, were swirling with emotions beyond Dean's ability to answer to. He also couldn't snap off a sarcastic 'no chick-flick moments'-type comment. It was a relief when Sam made up his mind to have Dean rebandage his wound. 

"Fine." Dean took the supplies he'd gathered and a bottle of hooch and shifted over to Sam's side, giving himself enough room to work. Maybe he should have made Sam put on clothes first, at least his boxers. His nakedness was really hard to deal with right now – he had a beautiful, masculine body, all slim, hard, curved lines and a compactly-muscled upper body – something Dean had seen the potential of years ago. It was difficult not to stare at him, so Dean kept his eyes focused on the task at hand. 

They both winced when Dean pulled off the outer bandage, tape and all. Underneath, the scab was softened from the bath water, uneven black stitches an ugly contrast. All around it, all the skin was bright red. There were no streaks extending up or down Sam's arm, not yet, but if it were infected that would be next. "This isn't gonna be pleasant. Brace yourself." Dean dabbed some antibiotic cream over the surface of the wound till it was entirely covered. Sam hissed and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, not because the cream would sting but just from the slight pressure. Dean unwrapped another gauze patch and taped it on. 

"Well, that'll do for now. I definitely want Ellen or Jo to look at that, it's not pretty. We should go, like you said. Need help getting dressed?" It took everything Dean had to keep his voice neutral. 

* * *

Sam almost welcomed the throbbing and burning pain when Dean tended to his wound. He hissed and grunted through the procedure, relieved that it focused his thoughts away from the wall that had suddenly sprung up between them. 

"Unpleasant is the understatement of the year, dude!" he pressed out between clenched teeth. Dean flinched, and Sam wondered for a moment if this would remain the only situation today in which they both reacted normally – more or less.

Panting hard when Dean finished with the wound and dressed it again, Sam looked at the pile of clothes and grimaced. "I'd appreciate your help," he admitted. Being touched by his brother was about the last thing he wanted – probably one of the few things he and Dean would agree on right now – but even the thought of moving hurt his arm.

Dean went to work, seemingly able to distance himself from the task, for which Sam was grateful. His brother had chosen one of Sam's warmer flannel shirts, and Sam was glad for it, suddenly shivering with cold again.

"Thanks," he said when it was over, fighting to smile. "Now let's have our last Percocet, shall we? And maybe I should take a couple of ibuprofen, too, I seem to be developing a fever." 

As soon as Dean turned away from him, the smile fled from Sam's face and he closed his eyes in abject misery. There was but one solution he could see to their problem, but it wasn't going to happen: they had to talk, and the number one rule in Dean's life was no talking about his feelings.

* * *

Keeping his hands off Sam's body beyond the very minimum necessary to get him into another flannel shirt and sweats made Dean sweat, mostly out of fear he'd accidentally do something Sam would find inappropriate. He strode quickly around the room after that, gathering up their stuff and taking it out to the car. Dean grunted in response to Sam's thank you and his repetition that they split the last Percocet. He had to put the kibosh on any 'talk' before he snapped and said anything else they'd both regret. Hadn't everything he'd already spilled his guts about to Sam been plenty? And still it wasn't enough to meet his brother's needs. Except... That wasn't for him to do in the first place, meet those kind of _needs,_ so why was he acting like little boy lost about it?

Biting the pill in two, he offered half to Sam and went to fill one of the plastic glasses in the bathroom with tap water. "Here..." When they had both swallowed, he went to help Sam up. "Time to go... Everything's ready. Four, five hours to Harvelle's. You can sleep the whole way if you want to." 

* * *

_"You can sleep the whole way if you want to."_

So you won't have to talk to me, Sam thought bitterly while he tried to lean on Dean as little as possible during the short walk to the car. "I think I might do that," he said. Anything would be better than the uncomfortable silence he could expect from his brother – he'd feel the silence even when Dean had the loudspeakers blaring.

"Mind if I take the back seat? More space for my legs," he explained. Dean was suffering as much as he, and although he didn't want it, Sam hoped that the spatial distance would make it easier to separate himself from Dean emotionally.

* * *

"Yeah, do that. Might as well be comfortable." Dean saw Sam, who seemed to be walking better after some sleep, outside and into the back seat. It was better that Sam not be up front, either with his head in Dean's lap or _not_ , with the lack being like the proverbial white elephant between them. He walked around the back, eased himself in behind the wheel, and started up the Impala. Hopefully his half of a pain pill would kick in soon. As an afterthought, he tossed the blanket from the day before over the seat back. 

The blanket still carried Sam's scent. And his. Dean allowed himself a moment, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the steering wheel, before he raised his eyes and slid into reverse. 

* * *

The knife sliced through skin and muscle and Sam cried out. His skin blistered as the silver set his flesh on fire. When had he turned into a demon? Nothing made sense anymore. His whole body was on fire, and regardless how much he twisted and turned, he couldn't escape from the confined space. 

Someone was speaking to him but he couldn't make out the words. It sounded like Dean, which kind of figured: his brother would consider it his duty to hunt down a possessed Sam. He only wished that Dean would stab him in the heart and get it over with, but for some reason Dean – or whoever it was – was honing in on his left upper arm.

Sam vaguely remembered that the last time they'd been together, they hadn't been comfortable with each other. He wasn't sure why, but it didn't really matter. Sam always screwed things up, starting with walking into tables and disrupting his sleep to... no, wait, it was coming back to him now... Sam had told his brother that he loved him. They'd even had sex...

No wonder that Dean was pissed off with him! Biting his lip when the knife was twisted again didn't help Sam suppressing another agonized scream. His only hope was that since the ambient temperature kept getting hotter and hotter, he'd pass out or die eventually. Or that it would become too hot for Dean. Whichever came first, Sam knew it wasn't going to happen any time soon.

He tried to brace himself for the next wave of pain but when it came, it still caught him unprepared. It was simply too much.

"Dean, please stop it," Sam screeched. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry..."

* * *

The last twenty miles had been a daze. They'd been on the road only two hours and Dean was having to struggle to stay awake behind the wheel. He was going to have to stop for coffee in the next town. 

Sam had been tossing and turning for a while, mumbling wordlessly. Must be bad dreams. Everyone had strange dreams when they were sick or hurt, and Sam had always been susceptible to that anyway. All of a sudden, he screamed Dean's name and, _"Stop it!"_

Dean nearly drove off the road. "What, Sam?" He tried to be calm, getting the Impala under control and slowing gradually. Sam didn't answer, but a quick glance in the rear-view mirror told Dean he was totally out of it. Dean pulled the car over, leaving it running, and slid from behind the wheel to the middle of the front seat, then turned around as fast as he could without killing his ribs. "Sammy, what's wrong? You're..."

A hand to Sam's forehead told Dean his brother was running a fever, much worse than before. His hair was matted with sweat. "Shit!" Dean hadn't given him his antibiotics. He'd had a double dose early in the morning, so he should have been okay for now, but he obviously wasn't. ibuprofen was good for lesser pain, not so much for fever. He might have some acetaminophen stashed somewhere, if he could only remember where. Sam was going to need water. All that he had was holy water, but they had at least a gallon in the trunk. Okay. And some cloths. He needed to get Sam's temperature down. He hoped there'd be an ice machine available in the next town, too. 

Sam, if he was conscious at all, would sense Dean leaving the car, so he had to make it quick. Pushing the passenger door open, Dean went around back, popped the trunk, and rummaged around for the gallon jug he knew was back there somewhere. Ah. There were some oily rags they used for cleaning firearms, but that wouldn't do. Roadside, Dean stripped from the waist up, tore his t-shirt into strips, and used the holy water to wet them down. He took a deep breath, then opened up the door to the back seat next to Sam's feet. "Sam! Wake up!"

* * *

Suddenly, his feet weren't confined anymore. Sam's heart was racing already, but it sped up even more as he sensed a chance of escaping his tormenter. It was only the strength of his desperation that enabled him to kick out, then sit up and scramble for freedom. 

The knife was still stuck in his bicep, but he'd take care of that later. First he had to get out; this might be his only chance at survival. His eyes blinded by tears, he could see that someone – _something?_ – was blocking what he perceived to be the exit from this hell, and he pushed as hard as he could. 

The barrier was soft but firm and although it moved and yelped, with obvious pain as Sam noted grimly, it didn't yield. Sam's legs, however, did, and only a moment later he crashed to the ground. 

Of course, he landed hard and this pushed the stake even deeper into his muscle. Howling with pain, Sam realized that his tormenter had only tricked him with the illusion of a way out. He sensed that he was going to die, which was something to look forward to as it meant the end of his pain. However...

It also meant that he'd never see Dean again. "No!" Sam managed to pull himself up on his knees, then balled his hands into fists and started punching his captor. There was no force at all behind his attack, and after only a few seconds he collapsed on the ground again. 

There was one more attempt he could make in order to free himself, but Sam couldn't even begin to remember the words of any exorcism. "Vade... retro..." he stammered, but when his captor came closer, he knew that this was the end.

"Dean," he called out for the brother he loved so much and who'd worry himself sick over losing Sam. "If only I could tell you... Too late... So sorry..." Unable to move, Sam hoped the final blow would come quickly.

* * *

As soon as he opened the door, Sam was kicking out at him. It had to be full-blown hallucinations now, Dean thought. 'He must think he's in a fight.' His heart caught in his throat; he didn't even know what to do. Now Sam came at him swinging, eyes wild with the whites showing, but in his state he really couldn't hurt Dean. More likely he'd bang himself up. It didn't go on long – his lanky brother tripped over his own feet and collapsed in a heap on the ground. 

"C'mon, Sammy... You gotta get up." Dean wasn't sure if he would be able to haul that long frame back into the car, with his ribs still killing him. But it looked like he'd have to. He couldn't have Sam raving by the side of the road, getting worse by the second. He was trying to punch Dean again, saying a few words in Latin or who knew what language with no conviction. And, apologizing again. Shit, what was the matter with him? Even now, totally delusional out of his head, Sam was eaten alive by blame. Well, that made two of them. 

Dean struggled, trying to lever Sam to at least his knees or even all fours, to crawl back into the back seat. A car drove by, the driver slowing down to stare at them. Dean was tempted to flip them off but it would only call more attention to their situation. What if a cop appeared? They'd be so fucked. They had to...

_"Move,_ Sammy!" he ordered in frustration. Dean bent down, groaning, and picked Sam up under the arms, trying to get his upper body into the car. Sam fought him all the way, still battling whatever unknown creature or demon he was seeing in his mind. No 'buts' about it, this was going to be a wrestling match the whole way. And then what? Handcuff him? Dean was ready to scream or cry at the futility of this whole mess and worry for Sam. "You _gotta_ get back in the car!" 

Nothing was getting through to that muddled head. Dean got into the back seat, trusting that Sam's instincts would tell him to follow Dean. He was right. Dean pulled his brother in after him, dodging his flailing limbs as best he could. A little at a time, he worked them both toward the far door. Once Sam was in as far as his knees, Dean twisted around, pushing Sam flat onto his back, on the big bench seat. The struggles escalated; at this rate Sam would get away again. "Dammit, would you stop!?" Dean spat, not that there'd be an answer. 

At the end of his rope, starting to panic, Dean swung his body around again till he was fully on top of Sam, laying on him. "Please, Sam," he begged. The sound of his own broken voice made his stomach knot. Dean framed Sam's face in his hands. "Please be alright..."

* * *

The monster wrestled him into the cage again. Sam fought, but he didn't have much left to give. It was sheer desperation that kept him going, but he knew he was losing. Sooner than he'd hoped, where in all reality – reality? – he'd lost all sense of time, he found himself being flipped on his back, pressed down by a heavy weight. It was over.

The scene changed. Trembling hands held his face, caressed his cheeks. Something fell onto his face – a tear? A sweat drop? Suddenly, he recognized the voice that kept talking, yelling at him. Now it was begging. And it was Dean. Dean, whom Sam had been so sure he'd never see again. Dean, begging him to be alright.

His brother must have come to rescue him! It hit Sam that Dean was laying on top of him, pinning him down, and he frowned. Why was that? It didn't make any sense. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that Dean was here, and Sam would be safe – as long as they managed to get out.

"Dean, we gotta go," Sam whispered urgently, his voice hoarse from screaming. "This place... the fire... The knife... Quick, before they come back!"

* * *

"I know.... I know we gotta get out of here. Settle down," Dean tried to soothe. He was no good at comforting people; his voice was too rough for it. He watched his tears fall onto Sam's face in a state of disbelief. What? Him? Sam wasn't the only one who was losing his shit. 

Dean swiped a hand across his face and then Sam's. Again, he pressed one palm against each side of Sam's face, willing him to snap out of his waking nightmare. 

"I swear, I'm gonna get you out of here. Gotta get you to the Roadhouse. But you gotta stay put – stay in the car. Can you do that? Huh, Sammy? Do it for me," he pleaded. Sam seemed to calm down. He was breathing heavily, twitching in all four limbs. It had probably cost him a lot, that little outburst. 

Not knowing if he dare get up yet, Dean offered, "Can you drink water? Or Gatorade?" Considering the puking the previous night, electrolyte imbalance could probably be added to Sam's list of symptoms. Dean would feed it to Sam feed it mouth to mouth, if he had to. "It'll help you." 

* * *

It really was Dean. Sam smiled softly despite the pain. His brother's weight was crushing him but the solidity of his body implied safety. Dean was going to rescue him. He'd promised he would, and Sam knew he could trust him. Unless... Not sure what was real any longer, Sam began wondering that if this Dean wasn't a monster, maybe he was a hallucination? Had Sam been trapped and poisoned by a djinn? But he was too weak to care. If this wasn't real, at least a dream-Dean was here, promising all would be well. That's what mattered.

There was the heat of the surface he was lying on, though. His skin felt as if it were blistering. Dean wanted him to stay put in the car. Was this...? "We're... the Impala?" It didn't make sense. Or maybe it did, his skin was aching everywhere: his shirt was chafing, as was Dean's body pressing against him. Maybe it was Sam, not the – backseat, that created the heat. Dean suggested that he needed to drink something, and Sam remembered that he hadn't peed in what felt like days. Then, there was the pain in his arm, not from a silver knife but from a shot wound that must have gone bad.

His stomach heaved at the thought of drinking, but he knew he had to try. His brother was bringing him to Jo and Ellen's, which meant things weren't looking too good. Sam's body couldn't stay still, but he stopped struggling. 

"Dean, I think I'm ill." He grimaced. "I don't want water, but I'll try it."

* * *

"Yeah, we're in the Impala. Have been the whole time." Thank god! Sam was still disoriented but back to at least speaking – croaking – coherently, and he recognized Dean. He didn't want water, which his body needed. Instead, Dean fished for a bottle of Gatorade, found a couple on the floorboards, and broke the seal on one. 

At that point, Dean decided he wasn't going to move Sam, not even to sit up for a drink. He could no longer kid himself that Sam would get better if he'd just lie still. Exertion wouldn't help, though, if Sam was even of capable of anything more. "Try a little of this, Sammy. It's lemon-lime flavored. Should be able to keep it down. No, don't move. I'll hold your head." Dean did as he had said and lifted Sam's heavy head with one hand, and placed the bottle of Gatorade to his lips with the other. It wasn't an easy position to hold; he also didn't want to crush the breath from Sam and had to put some weight on his leg. 

Sam's mouth was already slightly open, but beyond that, he didn't seem to know what to do. Dean waited, and finally dripped a little into Sam's mouth. "Good, Sam. A little more." Since it had worked before, he added, "Do it for me."

* * *

_"Do it for me."_

Swallowing was hard work, but Sam wouldn't let his brother down. Dean fed him a sticky-sweet liquid in small sips. His stomach was churning and he had to fight to keep the stuff inside. 

When Dean tipped the bottle against his lips again, Sam tried to stop him with a feeble gesture of his hand. "Need... a minute." His effort would be in vain if he couldn't hold the drink down.

"Don't want you yelling at me for ruining the upholstery," he managed to comment a little later. The liquid, as small an amount as it had been, did help. 

His stomach might not like it, but Sam knew his body needed the fluids. He was burning up with fever, and the dehydration made it worse.

"Think I'm ready for more." 

* * *

So far, so good. Sam was able to signal he needed a break. It was a relief to be able to set his head down; Dean's position semi-astride Sam, half-upright but bent forward to avoid the car's roof, left a lot to be desired. "Good job, Sam," Dean told him, as if he were talking to a child. Anything to keep Sam in his right mind, which he definitely was for now if he could make a joke. 

"Wouldn't be the first time you puked all over Baby," Dean returned. "But yeah, I'd rather you didn't." 

When Sam was ready, Dean held his head up for another few sips. As it had appeared earlier, Sam's hair was wet with sweat. It was pouring from his face and the rest of him, too. No way was this little bit of replenishing fluid going to be enough. 

"I'm going to try something. You're burning up, and sweating gallons. We need to get you cooled down. There's holy water from the trunk, and it's almost cold from being back there. I'm gonna sponge you down a bit, to bring your temperature down. You cool with that?" 

Dean wasn't really asking permission, more like giving Sam a head's up, although it would be easier on both of them if Sam didn't fight about it. But first he had to retrieve the gallon jug and makeshift cloths he'd left outside on the ground. Also, it was time to shut the door. Having Sam's feet outside on the ground with it open was asking for it. 

Not waiting, best to get started, Dean slid off Sam for the moment, parking his ass next to Sam's thigh on the seat, and began the ungainly process of inching toward the open door. As an afterthought, he kept one hand on Sam's chest, to let him know he was still there. It was a stretch. Dean grabbed everything the second it was in reach, suppressing a groan as all the bruising along his side screamed in protest at how he was having to bend. Rather than ask, Dean simply pulled Sam's legs up at the knees, one at a time, and slammed the door shut. 

* * *

Another sip helped clear Sam's head a little more. What Dean had suggested made a lot of sense now that his brain was at least minimally functional again. Not happy at being moved, Sam winced when Dean pulled his legs up to fold him inside the Impala. However, the way his brother moved and the barely-suppressed moan reminded Sam that he wasn't the only injured party here.

"Dean," he rasped. "D'you think you can help me sit up? It'll be easier on you. I guess I can handle it, just dunno how to get there." Everything hurt, agony shot out in waves from his arm, his head was close to exploding, his skin was crawling, but despite all that Sam was beginning to feel a little more human again.

* * *

"Just stay where you are," Dean said. If Sam was feeling better, even marginally, he wasn't going to upset the delicate balance. "Let me know when you can drink more. You need it." 

With that, Dean steeled himself and began to unbutton Sam's shirt. This was the how-many-eth time in less than two days now? Sam looked at him, eyes glittering. From the fever, Dean told himself, that's all. What was the temperature at which the body shut down? 105? 106? Whatever Sam was at, it was too high. 

* * *

"A little sip at a time should work," Sam said. Somehow, he was relieved to be allowed to remain on his back, but it made it all the more obvious to him that he was really sick this time.

"Man, I feel like shit," he groaned. "At least I think I'm me again, well, kind of. Any chance we got a few ibuprofen left? Or, even better, a few hundred?"

* * *

"Yeah, well, you look like shit, too," Dean tried for normalcy – normal for them. "There's some ibuprofen in the back, somewhere. I'll get you some before we take off again."

He gave Sam another sip of the sports drink and then set to work wetting down one of the torn strips of his tee-shirt. In cramped quarters, trying to be careful not to spill, it was clumsy. The first, Dean folded and pressed to Sam's forehead. He could practically see steam rising; the cooling effect wouldn't last long. Quickly, he dampened another and set it aside, over the back of the front seat. With the next, Dean gave warning, "Cold," and set the frayed, wet material on Sam's breastbone. 

* * *

"Oh god," Sam moaned when Dean put the first piece of cool, wet fabric on his forehead. How could something so simple feel so good! "Dean, you have no idea..."

When Dean warned him that he was putting the next one on his chest, Sam tensed, then let out another grunt of heartfelt relief. "So good," he groaned. The cloth on his head had already warmed up, but the brief moment of not feeling as if was going to combust any second as well as the promise of more helped his twitching body settle a little.

Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax. Dean was looking after him. Regardless how bad he felt, everything would be okay. This time, he managed to raise his good hand a fraction. Too tired to speak, he touched Dean's arm, conveying his thanks. His brother would understand, and Sam smiled. It was good to be back from wherever he'd been only a few minutes ago.

* * *

It was helping. Relief flooded Dean, that Sam was feeling better, and that he had made the right choice. His brother moaned, he supposed in relief as well. Tentative fingers touched his arm. Dean accepted the gesture wordlessly, squeezing his fingers over Sam's for a second. 

The cooling effect didn't last long at all. He switched out the cloth on Sammy's forehead and poured more cool water on the first. Then he picked up another rag and did the same for the one for his chest. That was fine for one small area, but Sam needed more. Dean slowly moved the cloth to the right, then the left, flipping it over. "Wish I had ice," he murmured. "There's a lot of you to cool off." 

Every few minutes, he repeated the pattern, till half the water was gone. Sam didn't say much; there wasn't much _to_ say. Some of the redness was finally fading from Sam's skin. His eyelids were at half-mast, a sort of pinched look on his entire face that Dean attributed to dehydration and pain. When Dean applied the next cold cloth to Sam's chest, over his heart, his nipples pulled tight, the tiny center buds poking up from the dusky flat areolas. Dean's own nipples tingled and hardened, a sympathetic response, he supposed. 

It was time to give Sam another drink. "You feeling better? You don't look as feverish." As much as he could've kept tending Sam, Dean's knees were screaming at him and all the muscles in his legs were starting to cramp. Before, Dean had thought sleep was the best option, but that hadn't worked so well. And he needed to get the ibuprofen as well. And he needed a piss. Neither of them had gone that morning. The thought of 'that morning' made him want to squirm. _The two of them against the wall in the bathroom, where he, Dean, had told Sam he could feel what he wanted and needed to for Dean, because he did, too... Sam ass up, riding his tongue... His brother stroking him off..._

Dean told his brain to shut the fuck up. It had all fallen apart, for reasons he couldn't understand. All the more reason to get on the road again. Being around people, even hunters, should give him some perspective. Plus Sam... He urgently needed medical help. "We should really get going. You think you'll be alright for a while?"

* * *

Sam nodded. "'s much better now." He was still feeling parched and had no illusions that he was running a high fever, but reality had replaced what he now knew had been a hallucination or fevered dream. He was also aware that he needed medical help of a degree neither he nor Dean knew how to provide.

"How far are we out?" he asked. "And how are you holding up?"

* * *

"Couple of hours. If I push it." Which he would. Dean shook himself back to reality, giving Sam more Gatorade and proceeding to untangle himself and get out of the door by Sam's feet, one limb at a time. Nearby was a handy bush to water. It worried him, that Sam still hadn't mentioned needing to go. Dean almost forgot to find the ibuprofen in his newfound hurry to hit the road. Honestly, he'd lost his head so many times since Sam had been shot, he was going to have to take a long hard look at his recent behavior. Sure, there were mitigating circumstances... And that was no excuse. To survive, a man had to be shrewd, calculating, tough, and uncompromising. Love would get him killed. Or, more accurately, if he couldn't function because his feelings ruled him, Dean would get both himself and Sam killed. It needed to come to some balance. 

But not till after this medical emergency was handled. Sam seemed to be reasonably comfortable for the moment, so Dean gave him two pills and helped him wash them down with another sip.

It was a miracle no one had bothered them. He wasn't going to push their luck one more minute. Dean hopped back in behind the wheel, hoping to feel the usual completeness when the Impala roared to life. Almost. For that, Sam should be up here with him. 

"You let me know if you need anything, Sam, you hear me? Otherwise, I'll call you when we get to the Roadhouse." Whatever pain relief Dean had got from the half a Percocet, it had worn off. As far as he was concerned, he was flooring it all the way there. 

* * *

If Sam had expected Dean to dodge the answer as to how he was holding up, he hadn't been disappointed. Past experience told him what the answer was. He felt tempted to press the issue, but if he pointed out to Dean that not answering at all would just make Sam assume that it was bad, Dean would simply claim that he was fine. Between a lie and no answer at all, pulling a fight wouldn't help making either of them feel better, so he kept his mouth shut.

There was another thing, though, and since this was about his, Sam's, needs, his brother would listen. "Dean, can I ask you a favor? Can you try to keep me awake? That... _dream_ I had... I hurt you. I can't do that again..."

* * *

Oh, great – Sam wanted to talk about it. That was Dean's idea of a nightmare, for sure. Weren't the uncomfortable-in-the-extreme experiences they'd put each other through in the last 18 hours enough? Yet when he wracked his brain for better subject material, Dean turned up empty. Why not? He could always redirect the conversation after a sentence or two – Dean was good at that. 

"What nightmare, Sam?" he asked. He was passing a truck and lost his train of thought. Nightmare? Oh, right. "Just now? Dude, you're weak as a kitten right now. You couldn't hurt me if you tried. Unless you accidently kicked me in the junk or something. So, what did you dream?" There. Nice literal interpretation. Let Sam try to turn that around on _him_.

* * *

The drive would lull him to sleep, so Sam was glad that Dean asked him about his dream. It was only when he noticed that Dean referred to it as his _nightmare_ that Sam's plea could have meant what they'd done earlier, too. After all, he still wasn't sure if what had happened between them right after he'd got shot, when they'd rubbed against each other, had been a dream or reality. He was reasonably convinced that Dean licking him and Sam stroking Dean off had not been a dream, though.

Whatever, this was bound to be another topic his brother would refuse to discuss, so Sam would keep to the monster from the nightmare he'd just been woken from.

"I... I was... couldn't move," Sam tried in vain to moisten his lips. "Someone or some _thing_ was cutting me with a silver knife... My skin melted, my whole skin, that is, because it was incredibly hot, but also where they'd stuck me."

He swallowed. "I thought I was a demon, possessed, and you were going after me."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment to focus his thoughts. His heart had begun to race again. "Then, my feet were free and I tried to run. Someone was standing in the way and I kicked and punched him, trying to get out, but they wouldn't let me, until I couldn't fight any longer. I tried to exorcise them in case I wasn't possessed and they were, but couldn't even remember the words."

Taking a shaky breath, he concluded, "When I woke up, I was in the Impala and you were trying to convince me that you were you and wouldn't hurt me."

Sam gathered all his strength to pull himself up into a sitting position and touch Dean's shoulder from behind. "I hurt you, though. Or I could have, and badly so. If I'd have hit your ribs..." He shuddered. "I could have killed you, Dean!"

* * *

Dean didn't interrupt. Dreams couldn't be argued, they were what they were. That Sam would dream about a demon possession followed, since that was a big portion of their lives. Having his skin melt sounded grotesque, no wonder he was freaking out. 

"Sam, if you were possessed, I'd do everything in my power to drive that demon out of you, and let you live. I wouldn't hunt you unless there were no other way. What we've seen... I'd _know_ there'd be some part of you still alive in there, seeing everything, even if your eyes were coal black. Never want to be in that position, Sammy. But if it went down like that, I'd cover you in rock salt or bleed you or stick you in a devil's trap and exorcise that bitch... Whatever it took." Dean was starting to shake with the strength of his conviction, as well as the darkness that welled up inside him any time he considered Sam being gone. He jerked upright in his seat when Sam's fingers touched him on the back of the shoulder. 

Sam's voice had that tone, the slightly swallowed effect, going hoarse and deeper, that meant he was on the edge of breaking down. That unnerved him more than the hallucinating. For all Dean's posturing, Sam cried way less often than Dean. Ha. If one could count a stray tear here and there as crying. But... Could've killed him? What? "Now what are you talking about? I've had cracked ribs before. It sucks but it's not serious." 

* * *

"I know, Dean," Sam said seriously. "I'd do the same for you, and I trust you with my life and my soul. I just..." He shivered, from the memory of the nightmare as well as from a sudden chill that had taken the place of the heat only a few minutes ago.

"It hurt," he whispered. "It hurt so fucking much and I don't think I've ever been so scared before." Sam's voice sunk even lower. "Not so much of dying, but of never being able to be with you again."

He swallowed hard, again. "And then... the first thing I did was punch you, where I could have so easily aggravated your ribs and had them puncture a lung or worse. Dean..." Sam's hand tensed on his brother's shoulder. "Swear to me that you won't die!"

It made no sense, not even to Sam, but he needed to hear Dean's promise.

* * *

"No, Sam, I'm not gonna die. I swear it. On my life." What a tangled mess. Dean didn't even know why he said it. It was as close as he could get to telling an outright lie without ever meaning to. Life was dangerous, and theirs, a thousand times more than your average Joe. It seemed so important to Sam, to hear those words, so he said them. Just like that. Dean didn't plan to die, didn't want to die but he couldn't predict when his time would come. 

"If I'm swearing, then you swear, too. No dying on me, Sam. You fight... or you pray, or you call for me, whatever it takes." It hit him just then, the entirety of Sam's monologue. _...so scared... of never being with you again._ There it was. And God, didn't that just hit him right in the jewels? But the meaning was ambiguous, clear as mud. When he didn't hear an answer, Dean repeated, "Swear it, Sam! Stay alive. We go down together or not at all." He was practically growling now. He wished he could turn around, look into Sam's face, catch his forever-narrowed eyes, watch his throat work and... And... 

Dean's choice of wording hit him about then. His face flamed. Not only did he not turn around, he resolutely faced front and ducked his head as much as he could and still watch the road. When he let out his breath, it escaped him in stuttering little gasps. 

* * *

It was ridiculous, and Sam knew he should have never asked for this promise, but a wave of relief flooded him when Dean swore that he wasn't going to die. "Thank you," he panted, unaware that he'd been holding his breath.

Of course, Dean wanted him to reciprocate. Now, this was a tad bit harder: Sam's injury might not have been life-threatening in the first place, but he shouldn't have deteriorated this fast. He wasn't sure what was happening to him, and wouldn't it be unfair to make a promise he might not be able to keep? Also, what exactly had Dean meant with, _we go down together or not at all_? Did his brother intend to kill himself if Sam should die? It couldn't be. Still, Sam felt that he was missing something here, something important.

But Dean had promised, and he couldn't see into the future either.

"I swear," Sam said solemnly. "By..." _By my love._ "By my life."

* * *

"Don't thank me. Just... don't. You're going to swear on your life? Then keep it! Keep living. Don't you dare die on me, Sammy!" Sam had sworn, yes, as Dean had, but they were only human. Weak. Frail. Fallible. As well-trained as they both were, they were mortal – their bodies could only take so much. Dean kept his eyes on the road, determined not to let them spill over. The day was cloudy, misting, no reason to squint or wear shades. 

This was too intense – he couldn't handle it. He should tell Sam now, just in case, the enormity of the love he felt, that Dean was in love with him... He had a right to know, didn't he? But Dean wasn't good at feelings, and while not superstitious, he would not risk jinxing either of them with the irony of all ironies. And barring the possibility, how would Sam ever trust him again, if he admitted to keeping _that_ a secret from him? 

"Ellen and Jo will take good care of you, and you'll live to fight another day," Dean said after a while in a more measured voice. Keep talking? He could play 20 Questions all day. Dad had taught them to keep things fact-based, hadn't he? The first thing that sprang to mind was, "Do you have a lot of these demon dreams, lately? Especially considering you haven't been sleeping much. So, how often?" 

* * *

_"Don't you dare die on me, Sammy!"_

Sam felt the tension in Dean where he touched his shoulder. Although his brother would deny it, Sam knew that Dean ran deep emotions. However, he hadn't excepted such a – passionate? – outburst. With his own feelings laid bare, Sam needed... needed...

Dean caught himself and changed the topic abruptly, asking him about the demon or demons in his nightmares. Sam recognized that Dean was evading him, however, he wasn't ready to let the earlier subject go.

"Dean," he whispered. Feeling the tension in his brother's shoulder renewed, he sighed. "Dean," he repeated in a louder but shaky voice. "Could you..." Sam leaned forward until his forehead rested against Dean's shoulder. "Could we pull up for a minute?"

_I need you,_ he wanted to scream, but that would be the unfailing way to make Dean _not_ stop the car.

* * *

Instead of answering the question or simply being silent, Sam asked Dean to pull over. They'd barely gotten going again. At this rate a two-hour drive would take all day. "What's the matter, Sam?" Dean's stomach coiled into knots as he considered the possibilities: Sam felt the Reaper breathing down his neck right then and there. Sam was going to tell him something so upsetting he was afraid for their safety once Dean knew. Or, lesser things like urgent bodily functions. "Why?" 

* * *

"Because I want to move over, sit next to you," Sam replied. "I really need to stay awake, and I don't like talking to the back of your head."

Okay, he sounded like a whiny ten-year-old. Sam tried to smile although his brother wouldn't be able to see it. "Can I have a chick flick moment?"

* * *

"No chick flick moments," Dean told him, a trace of smile in his voice. "Anyway, a few minutes ago, you were in no shape to sit up. What makes you think that's changed?" 

He wasn't averse to the idea; it always felt better with his brother beside him. Dean simply didn't want any more complications for Sam. 

* * *

"Um, what has changed? You gave me a sponge bath and watered me," Sam said with deep affection. "I'm better, at least for the moment. And I really prefer riding shotgun to the back seat. It feels, I dunno, wrong."

He grinned. "Besides, if I need to lie down again, your lap makes a rather nice pillow."

* * *

"Oh, God," Dean whispered. _...sponge bath... watered me..._ He had done those things, hadn't he? In the moment, it had seemed so life-and-death, the way he'd been all over the place, anything to bring down Sam's fever and stop the delusions or hallucinations or whatever. Sam made it sound like foreplay. The muscles in his jaw flashed as he gritted his teeth to keep from moaning, and not from pain this time. But he supposed that if Sam was doing well enough to come up with a wisecrack like that, that he was telling the truth. So then, Dean would give him hell for a minute, just because. 

"You can't ride shotgun with your head in my lap," he snorted. Dean took his foot off the accelerator. Baby's momentum carried her for a few hundred yards, till the next hill began. 

* * *

_"You can't ride shotgun with your head in my lap."_

"No, but I could always ride you," Sam blurted out – and froze instantly. Had he really just said that?

"I... ummm... What I meant..." Shit, if he couldn't keep his mouth shut, he should at least not try to explain anything. That way, Dean could have taken his reply as a joke. Well, he could always blame it on the fever, Sam supposed. It was only then that he noticed that his temperature must have gone down considerably: although he still felt uncomfortable and in a lot of pain from his arm, the shakes and flushes had abated.

"What I meant is I'm feeling better now." 

Okay, this didn't make any sense at all. Maybe Dean's relief that Sam was improving would distract him from the stupid comment, though.

* * *

Ride him? Dean's eyebrows crawled his forehead. He'd had plenty of women do that, but the thought of Sammy on him, holding him down while he fucked himself on Dean's cock... oh hell... What was he doing? Okay, maybe it was 'safe' to flirt a little with Sam in the back. Flirt? Who was he kidding? This was more like sexual Jeopardy. 

"Or there's always road head," Dean blurted. He realized too late that Sam had corrected himself, turning the innuendo into a nice generic, "I'm feeling better." So there his suggestion hung, while the purr of the Impala's engine slowed. Maybe he should just floor it and put it behind them. 

* * *

Sam thought he hadn't heard right. "Rrr-road head?" he coughed. No way Dean could have said that, right? So maybe he was still hallucinating – but this felt very real to him. Or he was indeed possessed, like in his dream, but it wasn't a garden-variety demon but a succubus... Or an incubus – what was the latest lore on sex demons trying to make one seduce their brother?

He shook his head to clear it, wincing at the stab of pain, but it helped nevertheless.

"Dean. Stop the car. _NOW."_

* * *

On any other day, Dean wouldn't take orders from Sam. But when he ground out that Dean stop, _NOW,_ Dean slammed on the brake, guiding the Impala as it skidded to a stop. He threw it into park and turned halfway around. Sam's eyes blazed back at him. Oh, he was pissed.

"What?!" Dean knew he deserved the earful he was about to get.

* * *

Sam's mouth fell open when Dean followed the command. It was the last thing he'd have expected from his brother: Dean never followed orders – except those from Dad, of course. He snorted bitterly. Here was another unresolved issue, but it would have to wait.

"Dean," Sam wasn't sure how to phrase this. His brother wasn't going to like it. "We need to talk. I mean, _talk."_ He laughed, a little bitterly. "You know, I have to keep my promise and stay alive because we really need to talk. It doesn't have to be now, but... things have been said..."

He swallowed. "For now, I just want to sit next to you. I want to be able to see your face."

* * *

"Oh, like that's not rape-y, knowing you're sitting there staring at me," Dean grumped. "Fine. We're stopped. You wanna sit up here, you can sit up here. Whatever." 

It was work to move; he was stiff from all their earlier contortions as well as bruised. Dean got out of the driver's side and slammed the door, going around the back to the door by Sam's feet. At least he knew he wouldn't get kicked this time. Sam pulling his 'we have to talk' routine had taken him from close to spilling his own feelings and almost contrite – yes, him! – to seriously pissed and defensive in two seconds. If it went like it usually did, he could only keep Sam's mouth shut with glares and threats for so long, and when the inevitable flood of... whatever, happened, he'd tolerate it long enough for Sam to get frustrated, and for Dean to go bust open his knuckles on a wall or some shit. 

Yanking the door open hard enough to make the hinges scream, Dean held out a hand for Sam to take. Seeing his brother lying there, still pretty much helpless, might have melted him a little, if he was into admitting that sort of thing. He steeled himself for the effort of getting Sam moved.

* * *

The only word that registered in Sam's mind was 'rape'. He blanched. Was that what Dean thought had happened? But thinking about it, it was the truth, wasn't it? Dean had tried whatever he could come up with to spare Sam pain, to distract him from the injuries – and Sam had taken advantage without thinking twice. No wonder that Dean felt violated.

It was over. How could he have believed for even a second that Dean might actually feel something for him? _No, it was only happening in your head, Sam,_ he chided himself.

Gathering all the strength he could, Sam folded his arms across his chest. It almost made him scream when his torn muscle protested, but the rage fuelled by self-hatred overcame the pain. If he'd have had any more energy, he'd have jumped from the Impala and ran, but Sam knew his limitations in his current state.

"Fuck off!" he yelled. "Don't even think of getting your hands on me! I fucking hate you! Now leave me be!"

Suddenly drained from his outburst, Sam leaned back against the seat, fighting a surge of nausea. Dean hated his guts. Tough luck, he deserved that. Fuck his promise of not dying when, apparently, his brother couldn't wait to be rid of him – and who could blame him?

"Do whatever you want. Feel free to dump me here, that'd be the easiest. I'm fucking done with you."

Without Dean's love, Sam knew he'd die. The infection in his arm would serve to help things along. The sooner he got it over with, the better.

* * *

Dean pulled his hand back and recoiled. The only time Sam had shown that kind of anger toward Dean since they'd been kids was when he'd been possessed. About to retaliate, Dean suddenly found himself unable to say anything – his guts betrayed him. He turned aside fast enough to avoid splashing vomit all over Sam. What the _fuck?_ Maybe his brother was wrong about his fever and he was delusional again. What the fuck had he been thinking, before? Words and phrases went through Dean's mind on loop: _sponge bath... in love... road head... have to talk... hate you, dump me here, DONE WITH YOU!_

More bile and acid filed his mouth and Dean staggered away to puke it up. When he was empty, he spat and spat, but the taste wouldn't go away. There was stuff to drink in the car, but he didn't even want to look at Sam. It's not like he couldn't take being yelled at. Just... They'd been so close to something. Whether or not Dean wanted to discuss that something was no longer at issue. Sam slammed that door on him. But, Dean still had a responsibility, an obligation. 

"Don't be a bitch," Dean said, clipped and cold. "I don't know what's wrong with you. One minute you love me, we're swearing promises to stay alive. And who can promise that, Sam? Some drunk driver could hit me where I stand. You could die tonight, unless we make it to Harvelle's. And then... Fuck off? Just like that? You don't want me to touch you? I can respect that. Shouldn't have... I was selfish." He could feel his eyes getting wet and struggled to control his voice and breathing. "But you don't get off that easy. You stay where you are, or I swear to god that I'll knock you out. You're my brother. Family takes care of its own, whether it likes it or not!" 

* * *

"Yeah? Any drunk driver could hit you where you stand?" Sam yelled venomously. "I wish they would! Both of us! What the fuck do you think you're doing? I didn't fucking rape you!"

Dean seemed to be sick, and Sam felt the bile in his stomach rising, thinking with a vengeance how it would hurt Dean if he threw up all over his brother's beloved _car._ He snorted bitterly. Trust his brother to have more emotions for a pile of steel than for his own flesh and blood.

His stomach was churning, but Sam felt he had nothing to lose. "I fucking love you, you hear? And it's got nothing to do with fucking family, but you're just not getting it. Brother, family, who the fuck cares!" 

Physically and emotionally overwhelmed, Sam burst into tears. "Knock me out, please do. Just make it stop hurting. Please? Dean?"

* * *

Oh Jesus Christ. Where had Sam pulled that from – that Dean was fabricating some rape allegation? Shaking his head like he'd been punched, Dean quietly freaked out, one hand braced on Baby's back quarter panel and bent forward at the waist, in case he puked again. The kid was out of his tree. Was this some kind of reverse-blame thing? 

Sam was so miserable over it he began to cry over his last outburst, and Sam just didn't do that. Dean couldn't understand why he would say fuck family and fuck being brothers, now that he loved him when a minute ago it was the opposite. For Dean, while he found Sam annoying at times, OCD about his stuff and downright girly about all that emotional drama, the edge never wore off his love. Never. 

The world listed to the side. He felt drunk, not the pleasant kind of buzzed-drunk, but the out-of-range kind where you know you've had way too much and you're cornered and there's nothing and nobody gonna help you. Dean had a high tolerance, and he'd worked himself up to it for good reason. If he'd had an older brother or someone, maybe he too would have begged to be knocked unconscious when the pain got to be too much. By the time Dean had been 13, he could take down a grown man with the right backhand punch to the jaw. He could do that for Sam. Let him rest, take the pain away for a while. 

It better be quick, and he knew he didn't have the option of standing Sam up for it. Before he lost his nerve, Dean strode over to the open back door, grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt, pulled him up, drew back his arm, and cold-cocked him across the point of his chin. The surprise and raw pain in Sam's reddened eyes had almost stopped him, but this was for mercy. After, Dean laid him gently back down on the seat. "I'm sorry, Sammy..." 

* * *

Sam didn't have time to think when Dean returned. Everything happened too quickly for him to process. Dean's eyes were unreadable as he pulled Sam up and punched him. In the wink of an eye, Sam's emotions went from rage to surprise, then gratitude. Then, nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

It was evening by the time Dean pulled into the dusty gravel parking lot of Harvelle's Roadhouse. A half moon was up, clear and bright, clover from a nearby field filling his nostrils with sweetness. 

It was a relief. For two hours, Dean had driven as fast as he dared, slowing down for a few small towns and what speed traps he could remember from the other times they'd been through the area. Pocketing his keys, Dean debated bringing Sam inside versus scoping out the place and possibly finding help. From the hurried and troubled glances he'd had into the back seat, it was obvious that Sam was in a bad way. Sweat poured off him and he tossed restlessly after the first half-hour, mumbling and making snuffling noises, but mercifully not waking up. 

Concern for both his brother's mental and physical health ate at Dean's guts. Having tossed his cookies earlier, he wasn't nauseous. More like, there was a Sam-sized ulcer inside him, more painful than any hunting-related wound or bash in the head. Speaking of... He needed to find Jo or Ellen or Ash or someone _now._

Dean strode into the dim interior of the bar, looking left and right, and to all corners. As usual, a few hunters sat at the bar or at tables, distanced from each other, drinking or cleaning their weapons. Ellen was behind the bar tonight, wearing flannel and a short apron, currently pulling one of the taps to fill a mug. Jo's long blond hair shone like a beacon from back by the pool table. Hustling, he supposed. She didn't notice his presence. Ash was nowhere in sight – probably getting high in his 'office'. 

But Ellen did notice him. It drew him a surprised glance, nothing more. Dean waited impatiently for her to finish serving, tapping his bruised knuckles against the battered plank of the bar. 

* * *

At first, she almost didn't recognize him: Dean moved like an eighty-year-old. When he came closer, Ellen could see that his face was not only badly bruised but also tense and pinched. Something was very seriously wrong. 

What was even more obvious than everything she could see in Dean was what was missing: Sam wasn't at his brother's side. Ellen could only hope that Sam hadn't gotten himself killed; from Dean's looks, she couldn't rule it out.

She forced herself to finish pouring. It was for her own benefit – calming her nerves before the storm – as well as for Dean's. John's eldest had a temper and his feelings ran deep, although he'd rather die than admit it. She'd never seen him looking so distraught, and gathering her strength and appearing calm would help them both.

By the time the glass was full, she felt – almost – ready to face whatever grim reality had brought Dean here. She moved over to him, glanced at his bruised knuckles that were nervously tapping the bar, then she met his eyes. The one that wasn't swollen shut was bloodshot and Dean looked as if he had cried. It must be even worse than she'd initially thought: Dean would never let anyone see the aftermath of a crisis on his face. This could only mean...

"Where's Sam?"

* * *

Dean nodded when Ellen headed his way. She was close to his dad's age with shoulder-length light brown hair, piercing eyes, a square jaw, and a tough-as-nails demeanor without looking hardened. He and Sam had met Ellen and Jo less than a year ago, when a tip had sent them to this very place. Anyone with eyes could see Jo had a schoolgirl crush on Dean, but he hadn't figured out Ellen yet. Like any mother, she was fiercely protective of Jo – overly so, considering that Jo was several years past legal – but she didn't remind Dean of his mother at all, nor did she act motherly toward him. It wasn't a cougar vibe he caught off her, either, not really. Perhaps simple downright hatred, well covered in the gritty polish of a business owner who knew not to burn bridges. Dean had learned, by being put in his place like a 5-year-old on more than one occasion, that she took no shit from anyone, especially not him. Not only did he have the special gift of being his father's son – and his father had gotten her man killed – but he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw right through him, about everything. Just the fact that the first thing out of her mouth was, "Where's Sam?" only confirmed it.

"He's in my car. Outside," Dean told her succinctly, in a low voice, while Ellen crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the sink. "He's hurt. Shot. Last night. I dug out the bullet and stitched him up. Wound is messing with him. I can't tell if it's festering or if it's going south for some other reason, but he's talking... he's not... I had to knock him out," he hissed. Right now was not the time to reveal any of the things he and Sam had said to each other. "Can you or Jo or someone look at it?"

Payment, either in money, in kind, or in favors, was expected between hunters, although it was usually more subtle than that, but he didn't have time to negotiate. "Name your price."

* * *

Okay, this was pretty much what she'd expected. At least Sam was still alive – with the emphasis on 'still' if she read Dean right. Whatever issues Dean had, he wasn't a drama queen. Ellen looked around quickly until her eyes settled on a man in one of the booths.

"Charlie," she called. "There's work."

The man raised his – considerable – eyebrows and got up quickly without appearing hurried. Ellen smiled at him while he approached and turned toward the pool tables. 

"Jo!" Her daughter didn't react, but one of the other players nudged Jo's shoulder, and Ellen knew that the bar would be taken care of. Dean was still looking at her, with the occasional nervous glance at Charlie. 

"Charlie is a doctor," Ellen told Dean. There would be time for more explanations later. Dean would need them: he'd never agree to entrust his little brother to a stranger. 

While she led the men toward the exit and parking lot, she briefly mused that Dean, with his handsome and tough-as-nails appearance, had no idea how vulnerable he really was. She couldn't blame the kid for his need to be strong and unemotional. Not only had Dean seen his mother killed by a demon at age four, and then had to deal with a father who became obsessed with vengeance. No, he was also the one left to take care of his baby brother, and later turned into a hunter apprentice before he was even old enough to understand what it all was about. Dean had never had a life of his own. His duty was toward his brother whom he adored – and who was now suffering from a potentially life-threatening injury. Otherwise, Dean wouldn't look as distraught. Also, whatever she might have against John, Ellen knew that he'd taught his kids well and that Dean would know how to take care of a simple shot wound. No, this was bad, and Dean knew it only too well.

It made it easy for her to name 'her price.'

When they reached the Impala, Ellen caught Dean's arm and let Charlie go ahead to see what was waiting for them inside. "Dean. We'll take care of him. In exchange I expect – make that I _demand_ that you behave like an adult. You don't interfere, and you let us take a look at your own injuries afterward. No bitching. Do we have a deal?"

* * *

At first Ellen made no mention of what he could expect as far as price. Some hunters were 'cash only'. It was a fact he'd paid with his body more than once. What sort of favor Ellen would ask, he didn't know her well enough to say. Instead of naming terms, she called out a name, "Charlie," and a man he'd never seen before stood up from behind a table and approached. 

Dean gave him a quick once-over. He didn't appear any more dangerous than anyone in this joint, and apparently Ellen trusted him, announcing that he was a doctor. Okay, so _this_ was who he was going to owe. And a 'finder's fee' to Ellen. She hollered at Jo to watch the bar. Seconds later, they were following Dr. Charlie or whatever he called himself out the door. Dean pointed out where he was parked, mostly for Charlie's benefit, although it was full dark but for the moon and he didn't know how Ellen's night vision was. 

It hadn't been more than five minutes, but Dean was already worried about having left Sam alone. What if...? Murphy's Law would be just their luck, Sam being relatively okay until the second Dean was out of reach. Unexpectedly, Ellen spun him while Charlie continued to the Impala. 

Dean's reflexes were shot, or she'd probably have found herself on the ground or pinned to the nearest hard surface when she touched him. It was then that she laid down terms. "'Interfere?'" he sneered. "What are you thinking, that I'm going to let a stranger work on him and not be there? You've got to be kidding." The look Ellen levelled at him said she was not. If he wasn't so damned tired, his head pounding, bruises and cracked bones screaming at him... 

But he couldn't have her call the guy off. If he really was a doctor, and even some quack was better than nothing, Sam would need him. "Alright!" Dean barked. "But Sam had better make it or I swear..." Swear what? What was he going to do? He couldn't save his own brother – everything he'd done and not done just made everything worse. That was his private hell to deal with. Ellen had a faint expression of disgust on her face, upper lip slightly curled back, but really, that was how she always looked at him. "Just take care of him," Dean muttered. It felt like another failure. 

Charlie had opened up Baby's back door, the one nearest Sam's head this time, but Dean couldn't see what he was doing. "You need help with him?" he called out. Having had to man-handle Sam several times in the last few days, he knew how much effort it took to move his baby brother's long limbs. And if he should wake up pissed as hell and fighting again... Dean hoped to hell the words Sam had said earlier were gone from his mind on the utterance. If anyone else should hear them, even with the explanation being that they were the ravings of a patient with a dangerously high fever, Dean would have to kill them. 

* * *

The man whom Ellen had introduced as Dean looked as if he was going to hit her. Charlie shook his head and hurried on to the appointed car. She could take care of herself and his patient probably needed help more than she did.

When he opened the car door, Charlie emphasized with Dean. If this were his brother, he'd be upset, too. The man who was stretched out awkwardly and unconscious on the backseat was running a dangerously high fever. His pulse was weak and through the roof. Charlie pinched the skin of his hand and it didn't smooth down again; capillary refill didn't seem to happen at all.

"We've got to get him inside," he called out. Dean offered to help, but given the man's posture he was barely able to stand without help himself.

"No, I can handle it," he said. Hopefully, Ellen would take care of Dean. The last thing they needed was a worried relative standing in the way. Some things were the same for hunters as for 'normal' people – or worse... or better: hunters stuck together and took care of their own. Something in Dean told him that this one would question every single one of Charlie's moves.

Charlie palpated along his patient's body and found a bandage around his left upper arm. He nodded to himself. Dean had mentioned a gun shot wound, so he would assume that this was the only injury he needed to worry about right now. 

Hoisting the man up into a fireman's carry took some effort, but Charlie had continued working out after rehab and he was never short of partners willing to help him practice at Harvelle's place.

Ellen started to lead the way, but Dean stayed behind, giving Charlie dark and threatening looks. Not stopping, Charlie met his eyes.

"If you want to help _him_ tell me exactly what happened. How and when did he get injured? How did you treat him? Any leads on why he's unconscious? Allergies or anything else I should know about? Shoot, man!"

* * *

The man, Charlie, leaned over Sam in the car for a few minutes, and announced he needed to be taken inside. 'That's obvious,' Dean groused silently to himself. It was true that Ellen could have refused him and turned him out, but for all those hours where his ultimate goal had been getting here, he hadn't really thought so. The doctor appeared to be in good shape, for he hiked Sam over his shoulder and headed back to the door of the Roadhouse, asking a rapid-fire series of questions about his circumstances along the way. Dean didn't feel like airing all this in front of whoever might be listening. "Not here," he insisted, adding that they be somewhere inside, out of the way first.

He followed Ellen and Charlie through the bar, the three – four – of them drawing stares, and into the back hallway. Loud, muffled heavy metal music told him Ash was in. He'd always assumed there was nothing back here but a kitchen and storage, but another doorway led to a medical examination room, painfully sterile and over-bright, with supplies stacked on shelves and other closed and locked cabinets along the walls. This guy knew enough to make it look legit, at least. Dean wondered if he could pay the man to replenish his own kit, which was down to bare bones now. He'd steal it if he had to. All of that flew from his mind as Charlie made to lay Sam down on the single padded table in the middle of the room. It didn't matter that Dean himself had had his own hands all over Sam's naked body and had later punched him out as the perfect end to the perfect day. He was over next to the table in an instant, assisting, making sure Sam's head didn't bang down hard and that he was decent. Ellen was one thing. Having another man touch his brother, even like this, strictly professional, didn't sit well with Dean. He realized he was growling and forced it down.

Blowing out a breath, he paced the room and tried to put his memories in rational order. For Sam's safety, he needed to be accurate. "We were doing a job last night, seemed like a routine salt and burn. The local P.D. showed up, Sam took a bullet-" he waved his hand in the direction of his brother's arm, which he was sure the doctor had noticed. "It's in the meat of his bicep. So here's what happened..." Suddenly his exhaustion him again, and Dean lowered himself into one of two metal chairs along the wall. Had it really only been the previous night? It seemed like a month ago.

"We got away, drove maybe a hundred miles, checked into some dive in a little town. I dug the bullet out. He was already shocky by then, lost quite a lot of blood, more when I took it out, had to use a scalpel to reach it. You'll see. He puked afterwards. Thought he'd choke but..." He hadn't; Sam being alive was evi dence of that. "One of the cops clocked me pretty good in the face," also obvious, "and punched me in the ribs; they might be cracked. So we were both pretty out of it, and I only packed and bandaged the wound then. By the middle of the night, Sam was feverish. He could barely stand. He was going to take a shower and pulled the bandage off, was bleeding like a stuck pig again, so I stitched him then. He took two antibiotics, I have the bottle around here somewhere, and two Percocets. One was supposed to be for me but he got confused and..." This wasn't important, and he needed to stick to the facts. "Never mind. We took off again, he slept some, we holed up in a different motel in another town late morning. After we slept," Dean struggled not to make it any more than that, on his face, "I realized we needed to come here. That was probably four, five hours ago. His mind seems to come and go. He's had this fever ever since, sometimes higher, sometimes not as bad. His arm has been bright red like that since it happened; I haven't seen any streaking. Today earlier, he was out of his head; I knocked him out, and he's still out." Again, Dean gestured at his brother's unconscious form. "I got him to take some Gatorade, a couple hours ago. He hasn't eaten. No allergies we know of. No significant medical conditions. No surgeries, other than this massive fuck-up," he grit out bitterly. "Any other questions?"

Dean leaned forward in his seat, running his fingers through his short hair. Wow, had he really babbled on and on like that?

* * *

While Charlie listened to Dean's description, he pushed up the patient's – Sam's – right sleeve and sank a 14 gauge needle into his arm. The guy was massively dehydrated, but he had veins like highways. Fetching a bag of saline from the fridge – they had to get the fever down – Charlie hooked him up, then added a dose of broad spectrum antibiotics to the drip. 

He could feel Dean's eyes burning into his back, but Charlie had worked with hunters before and didn't let himself be distracted. Ellen handed him a pair of trauma shears and he cut through Sam's shirt. The bandage looked dirty and it was soaked with blood and yellowish fluid. Charlie's heart sank when he recognized the smell. This didn't bode well.

"A salt and burn in a grave yard?" Charlie asked. "As in grave dirt flying around? And he went down to this in only a day?"

The dressing was sticking to the wound. Charlie tried to tease it loose but it wouldn't budge. Sighing to himself, he knew he had to get it off, even if this opened the wound again. Sam would require surgery in any event, and they didn't have a lot of time. Charlie pulled on the dressing and suddenly it gave, baring the wound.

Sam screamed loudly and tried to rear up, but Charlie put a hand on his chest to push him down again. Before he could say anything, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye.

* * *

The guy hooked Sam up to an IV while Dean finished talking. From the fridge. Dean knew he'd been right about ice. Why the hell hadn't he stopped? After the last fight with Sam, everything was a blur. 

Dean restrained himself from jumping up and pushing Charlie back when he cut Sam's plaid flannel shirt off him. Fine, Sam was a male and it's not his genitals being exposed but... He was being asked another question. "Yeah, graveyard. We ran out of there so fast we left the shovels." Dean did remember the rush of running for their lives, jumping the fence, peeling out in the Impala. They'd been covered in dirt and sweat, then blood... "I couldn't get him to shower till this morning." 

About this time, the man serving as Doctor tugged at the edges of Sam's bandage a couple times, looking concerned, and ripped off. Sam screamed like someone had skewered him and sat up like he was attached to a spring-loaded hinge. Immediately Charlie and Ellen moved in to push Sam down flat again. No thought to it, instinct alone moving him, Dean shoved Charlie into the nearest wall, forearm across his throat, knife out, open, and held to his jugular. "Don't you fucking touch him!" he snarled. 

In the background, he could hear Sam moaning. Ellen could deal with him. But Ellen was right behind him, tugging at his arm and calling his name in urgent bursts. "...Dean!"

Finally he heard. "What?" he spat, lips still pulled back over bared teeth. 

* * *

"Dean!" Ellen yelled, but Charlie looked at her calmly, conveying that he'd handle this. She stepped back and returned to Sam who was thrashing his head and moaning.

"Dean," Charlie said, his voice calm and low. "You can kill me, but if you want to save Sam's life I may be your only chance. Can you smell his wound? That's necrotic tissue. The onset of gangrene. Even if you get him to the nearest hospital from here, in the best case he'll lose the arm. It'd be close to a miracle if he survived at all, though. It's your decision, but if I were you I'd make it quick."

* * *

Lose an arm? What the _fuck?_ Dean wanted to slash out with his knife and cut the guy's throat but... Yes, he could smell it, his senses returning, and he wanted to gag. Charlie's calm and authoritative manner was also convincing. Other men would have pissed themselves at being jumped like that. 

"...no..." Dean whimpered. He could _not_ handle it. Scars were bad enough. To think of Sam disfigured like that, and it his fault... Well, Sam was going to get his treatment, and NOW. 

* * *

"Trust me, Dean. I swear that I will do all I can." Charlie didn't spell out that it might not be enough. The look on Dean's face said he knew. The man had been through a lot in the past 24 hours, and he was injured himself. 

Charlie slowly raised his hand and covered Dean's hand holding the knife. "It's okay," he said. "I'll look after your brother now. You've cared well for him until now, so let me take over." He gently moved the knife away from his throat, not encountering resistance. "Sam will need you when he wakes up. Why don't you go rest for a while so you can be there for him later?"

"Come, Dean," Ellen said. "You can lie down in our guest room."

* * *

"Sorry." Dean took two steps back and put his knife away, then held both hands up. "Do what you can for him." He looked at Ellen. "I won't interfere again. He can't lose his arm! What good's a one-armed hunter?" Sam could hold a knife or a pistol, but not a shotgun... Oh, god his beautiful body, not to mention what it would do to him, psychologically. 

* * *

"It's okay, Dean. Charlie knows." Ellen didn't usually feel motherly toward him, but Dean seemed on the verge of breaking into tears, and she knew that their relationship wouldn't survive this. She put a hand on his shoulder and led him from the room.

"So, tell me. What will it be? Straight to bed or do you need something to calm you down first? I'm needed back with Charlie, but Jo or Ash can get you a drink. And maybe you should eat, too."

* * *

Dean let Ellen hustle him out the door. His outburst told him he'd be much more of a liability than a help right now, where it came to Sam. And, if Sam hated him now, how much worse would it be if he lost his arm thanks to Dean's incompetence and interference? 

"I could use a drink," he admitted. Jo would probably either spit at him or try to flirt, neither of which sounded appealing. "Or maybe six." It was no news to anyone that his tolerance such that it would take that many beers to touch him. Best go for the vodka. "Hey Ellen... Thanks." Dean couldn't look her in the eye, but he did squeeze her arm briefly. "If anything, and I mean anything happens with Sam, come get me. Okay?" How was he supposed to say, 'in case he's dying or before you get out the bone saw'? 

Well, likely Ellen knew. She dealt with surly, jumpy, reticent hunters every day. Jesus, buck up, Dean! He needed to get a handle on himself. Getting drunk usually did the trick, for calming down. Then, sex to release the tension, followed by sleep to recover lost energy. Ellen had offered two of three. No doubt Jo would 'have' him, but that would create more problems than it solved. 

Walking along the hallway, Dean found himself actually considering Ash. The guy was a hillbilly freak, but he was also brainier than Sam, which meant a lot of time online, and he'd been to MIT, so it wasn't like he'd never been exposed to anything but the Midwest. Well, only one way to find out. Dean was not up to chatting anyone up. There was his door with that sign, _"Dr. Badass is in"_ that always made Sam roll his eyes and Dean laugh. If he ever had a door to hang it on, he might get himself one of those. 

Checking right and left, Dean knocked. Nothing. "Uh... Hey, Dr. Badass," he said, feeling stupid. 

* * *

"I will come and get you _if_ anything happens, Dean. I may not have a brother, but I have a daughter." Ellen's voice sounded gruffer than she intended. "Which you very well know as I still want you to keep away from her. Especially tonight. Now go and sleep. I'll check up on you later."

She watched him go and turn toward Ash's room. If anyone could hold up with Dean's alcohol tolerance it was their resident nerd. For the moment, Dean was in good hands. Nodding to herself, Ellen returned to the small clinic room where she knew Charlie was preparing Sam for surgery. Sam, too, was in good hands, and she could best keep her promise to Dean if she assisted Charlie.

* * *

There had been a glitch in his uplink to the GOES satellite for days or something else was wrong with the routine he'd set up to sift out atmospheric anomalies that could be traced back to demon activity. After spending the past 36 hours debugging and coding, Ash was getting more and more pissed at the NOAA administrator who kept kicking him out of the system. His mood wasn't helped by the fact that the admin from hell was a woman, a busty blonde whom he'd much rather bang than engage with in binary warfare.

When the knock on his door came, his mood sank even further. At this time of night it would be Ellen asking him to help at the bar or take the trash out or whatever. It was part of their living arrangement, but right now he'd much rather spank a certain someone's virtual butt – before she castrated his... _bits._

Ash's face lit up when he recognized Dean Winchester, although... "Hey yourself, _Mister_ Badass. No longer Mister Handsome, though. What the hell happened to your face, dude?"

* * *

Vaguely nervous the local geek-boy would answer his door butt naked again, Dean grinned at both the 'dude, you look terrible' comment as well as the fact that Ash was fully clothed. The back of his mullet was longer than ever, and his pointed features canted up in a smirk. "Not very bad ass today, I'm afraid," Dean told him. "Nor handsome. So, are you gonna invite a brother in?" 

Ellen's warning to stay clear of Jo echoed in Dean's ears. Under normal circumstances, he'd view that as a challenge. But again, bad idea. And he couldn't even think of using the 'last night on earth' line with Sammy's life hanging so close to... 

Damn, he needed that drink! Dean cleared his throat. "Sam's hurt. Ellen and that guy, Charlie, are..." He wasn't sure what they'd have to resort to. The dimly-lit hallway felt too confining, like it was closing in. Though it was impossible, Dean was sure right then that he could still smell the stink of – what was it Charlie said? necrotizing? – flesh. "He's with them, and it's bad. Got anything in here?" Dean was sure Ash could catch that he was referring to booze or weed or whatever.

* * *

Ash's eyebrow shot up when Dean referred to him as 'brother.' This was a rare honor indeed. A closer look revealed that although Dean grinned, his eyes looked like those of a drowning man. A second later, he got the explanation: Sam was badly hurt.

"Come on in," he said and grabbed Dean by the sleeve of his shirt. "I'm all yours, as is my stash." Ash gave Dean another measured look, nodded to the couch that also served as his bed, indicating that his visitor should sit. Then he went to his table – not the one with the computers and the close-up on admin-chick's rack, but the one with the booze and other fun stuff, where he poured quadruples of Bourbon. Quantity would be more appreciated than quality, he thought, and, after another glance at Dean, took the bottle along with the glasses.

"Here's medicine – trust me, I'm a doctor." Ash held the glass out, which was eagerly accepted. "As for the other doctor, Sam's in good hands. Charlie knows what he's doing, former chief of surgery up North. Ellen invited him to set up shop here. Believe me, our clientele has doubled since he arrived."

Ash grinned and refilled their meanwhile emptied glasses. "And they're not coming here for his cute butt, if you get my meaning. _That_ is as unavailable as Jo's. You don't wanna mess with Ellen when it comes to her man – or her kid, but you already know that – but I wouldn't mind having a shot at the guy." He jerked his hips to underscore what he meant.

* * *

Dean eagerly accepted the glass of rotgut Ash handed him and knocked back half of it. It burned like hell but in a good way. "Thanks, man," he rasped, and downed the rest. So it looked like he'd been right about Ash; Mr. Hillbilly Deluxe himself had never eluded to it before but instincts were instincts. Both ways, yep. Dean grinned to himself at the freeze-frame of a generous pair of tits half-covered by a tight button-down blouse. 

"I never noticed Charlie's ass. Sorta had other things on my mind. A real Doc? Pretty impressive. Figured maybe it was some dude got thrown outta med school. No offense. So, he's Ellen's, huh?" Dean reached over and punched Ash on the shoulder. "She'll chop your dick off, if you look at him funny. Sucks to be you!" 

Oh yeah, the booze was helping. He held out his glass for more, and Ash poured him another generous slug. It would be good to take his mind off Sam's situation for one night. They'd keep him sedated if this Charlie was any kind of doctor. Still, Dean knew if there was any noise from his brother he'd be out the door and down the hall as fast as he could hobble his sorry ass. 

He turned his best 'on the pull' smirk at Ash. "What else you got over there?"

* * *

"Not so sure that it sucks to be me," Ash commented dryly. "Charlie doesn't have the only nice ass out there, and, besides, he gets pulled out of bed all the time." He laughed. "You should hear Ellen bitching about it."

Despite laughing out loud, Ash was worried about his guest. Dean looked as if he wanted to get seriously snockered, but it would be better if he kept his brains together. Ash didn't want to even think about it but should things go south with Sam, Dean would never forgive himself if he wasn't immediately and at a hundred per cent available.

"Hm, lemme see," he said. "There's plenty more of what we just had, but I might have something better..." Ash raised his eyebrows and cocked his head while rummaging around in a box on the table. "Well, how about this, then? Gives you a nice buzz and less headache in the morning."

Ash finally found what he was looking for and showed his prize to Dean, holding a strip of condoms in one hand and a large tube of KY in the other.

* * *

Glass halfway to his mouth, Dean could feel his eyes widen. Even by his standards, Ash moved fast. "Uh... Wow, Ash, should I be flattered? If I'm not so handsome today and you've got more than enough ass to check out around here, what's the deal?" Ash was probably so horned up being around this doctor fellow, and he'd mentioned Jo as attractive as well, that he'd roll over, no problem. A little stab of arousal hit low in Dean's gut to tell him he was game. He felt like giggling, which meant his head was really messed. They hadn't touched the weed yet. "You must think I'm easy."

He let his eyes run over the other man. Okay, so Ash wasn't Sammy – no one was – but he did have a tight little body and if he was facing away, Dean could just pretend, what with the long hair, that he was a girl. If he had to. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam he'd never fucked a guy, but he'd had some experiences with handjobs and he'd let a couple of men blow him. Beyond his and Sam's youthful fooling around, that was. 

Putting his eyebrows up, Dean reached for the strip of condoms.

* * *

Ash grinned. "Who said that your _ass_ isn't handsome? Besides, if you take me from behind, I won't see your face. And, yes, you're easy." He directed a pointed look at the condoms in Dean's hand.

If he was a little surprised that Dean seemed to consider his suggestion Ash didn't show it. The man needed a distraction and he was wound up so tightly that his body was just screaming for relief. That, Ash could offer, and not only out of altruism: Dean oozed a raw sexuality that had always had Ash wishing for a taste of it, but with Sam around there'd never been a chance. The Winchester brothers were joined at the hip. Ash had gotten strange vibes from them, had wondered for a long time if they were doing each other, if Dean's aggressive flirtation with every woman he saw was a camouflage, but he'd never found an answer. Maybe he'd get one now.

If Dean was sleeping with Sam, at least they weren't exclusive. Ash's erection went from half-mast to full at the thought of... of what? The condoms in Dean's hand indicated that this was going to be more than a hand-job and Ash was fine with it. Getting a piece of Dean's ass would be heaven, but he doubted that was on his visitor's agenda. It didn't matter, Ash was happy to bottom, especially for such an exquisite man like Dean.

"You game then?"

* * *

Dean laughed again over Ash's wording, that his ass was handsome. It sounded ridiculous in that hick accent, but the kind of looks Ash was throwing his way told him he wasn't being patronized. About that, anyway. "Yep, I'm a beautiful man. Easy for you, for one night only." 

He raised his glass again, gulped down the last of the bourbon in it, and stood. Okay, so he was a bit wobbly. All that meant was they shouldn't fuck standing up. Dean dropped his jacket and outer shirt, and pulled his Henley up. He'd already forgotten, and winced when his side twinged hard. "Oops, my side here isn't so pretty either." 

So far, Ash hadn't done much but stare at him. Maybe he liked to watch people getting undressed. Dean reached for his belt buckle, working the end through and pulling back to disengage the punched hole from the pin. Any day now. "What, are we supposed to kiss?"

* * *

"We don't have to kiss, whatever you like." Ash wouldn't mind tasting Dean's lips, but most guys he knew didn't kiss. "Or we could just fuck. Or I could blow you." Plenty of options. However...

"That looks painful, dude. How about I ride you? I could face away from you, then we wouldn't have to face each others' ugly mugs." Ash grinned. "And who knows, maybe you like my long hair so you can pretend I'm a girl." 

Was Dean blushing? Suddenly the thought occurred to Ash that maybe there really was more between the Winchester boys than just brotherly love.

"Or," he whispered seductively, "you could pretend that I'm Sam..."

He braced himself for Dean's reaction, expecting anything from being bent over and fucked raw to a hard punch. Whereas he thought he could evade the latter and he'd be happy to go with the first, whatever was going to happen should serve to help Dean get some of the tension out of his system.

* * *

_...You could pretend I'm Sam._ The world went red. Any other time, he'd probably punch a hole in the nearest wall – or face. That would be too much of an admission. It made him crazy, thinking of the overlay of Sam's body over Ash's, which he hadn't seen yet but would shortly. His dick was flush with blood in an instant, more anger than turn-on. Dean gritted his teeth so hard it was amazing they didn't turn to powder in his mouth. 

"Well, well. Look at the mouth on you," he growled, desperate to play it off. "You talk like a bitch, besides having long hair like one. Fuck you. Better yet, blow me, Ash." He meant that in two senses of the word, and wasn't he just ready to go? Shoving his jeans and boxers below his knees, Dean plunked back down on the couch, knees wide to make room. Anything to shut the guy up! This was going to be rough, he would see to that. Ash had better be ready for what he was in for. 

* * *

"Or I could blow you and then you could still fuck me?" Ash grinned. "Tough guy full of juice like you, getting you off twice shouldn't be an issue, right?" 

If it looked like it might become an issue, Ash could always pull the Sam card again; he hadn't failed to notice Dean's reaction.

He licked his lips and stood in front of the couch. "Just one brief question: in how much of a hurry are we? Do you want my pants off, too, for a quicker _slide_ into round two?"

* * *

"I'm in a real big hurry... for you to shut up. ...Yeah, take your pants off, everything." Dean leaned forward, his hard-on poking his belly, to untie his boots. "What's the point in fucking if you're not naked?" Okay, that reasoning was more than a little thin. Call it personal preference, then. Now that they were doing this thing, he was going to get comfortable. 

Laces out of the way, Dean tossed his boots aside. Leaning back, lounging, he looked up at Ash, looked him up and down. "You'll do. C'mere!" He reached out and hooked his finger through one of Ash's belt loops. "Got plenty of that juice for you. That what you like, huh, boy? You're welcome to have a taste of me." It sure seemed like Ash was experienced, the way he talked. Not having to coerce him was a turn-on, in itself. Dean licked his lips, pushed his hips forward and wrapped a hand around his dick. He hoped that was invitation enough.

* * *

"Fair enough." When Dean let go of his belt loop, Ash shimmied out of his clothes in record time. He wasn't at all insulted by Dean's comment that he'd make him shut up – quite the opposite in fact: Dean was well-equipped and Ash liked big men.

"Got plenty of juice for me, huh?" He smirked as he knelt down in front of Dean in a fluid motion. "Lemme tell you, I intend to suck you dry."

Not waiting for a reply, he immediately took Dean all the way down his throat and swallowed around the thick root. _How's that for starters?_ he thought. For himself, the answer was clear. Having Dean so deep inside him, Ash couldn't taste him, but there'd be time for that in a few seconds when he had to let go for breathing. Planning to give Dean his very best, Ash started to leak, his arousal fueled not only by what he was doing but also by curiosity. 

He'd lusted after both Winchesters since he'd first set eyes on them, and now he was about to find out how Dean smelled and tasted, how he sounded and moved. Ash couldn't wait to make Dean lose it on his tongue, make him moan and grunt or silently shake. Would Dean push him down so he could shoot deep down Ash's throat? Or would he pull back so he could paint Ash's face? And how long would Dean need to recover?

He swallowed again, revelling in the feeling of his muscles tightening and massaging Dean's crown. Hell, who knew, he might even be able to cum from this...

* * *

Oh, he had plenty. His sac tingled, the twin glands tingling and drooling. It wasn't like Dean had been without any release for long at all, yet unless it was one session after another he always leaked and then spurted enough to more than fill that pretty mouth. Ash's lips were soft, and his mouth, hot as hell, and he opened his throat like it was his day job. 

"Nnnnrr-rhuuughff!" Dean growled, his hips snapping up. His fingers wound into the long strands at the back of Ash's head and pulled him down. There was wet, warm tongue lashing at him, base to tip, and hands all over his lower body. "God... More...! Please...!" he hissed. Why the hell was he so desperate? Just that morning... No! He wasn't thinking about that now – Dean shoved that all into its own box in his brain. This was different. Ash _wanted_ him, wanted his body, for sex. Hell, the man was pretty much inhaling him like a bong hit, both of them high on scent. Ash smelled like Mexican reefer, cheap scotch and ozone, a walking, sucking cheap date of the best possible sort. 

Already, Dean's balls tightened, wanting to unload. That boy had skill, and Dean moaned and humped his face in appreciation. "...Learned more than 'geek'... at MIT," he told Ash in a slavish moan; he'd probably heard it before. Hell, he could give lessons to most of Dean's lays. "Soon..." he warned. If Ash was this eager, he probably swallowed, a concept that made Dean's cock throb hard and lurch; it was only polite to caution. 

* * *

What did they use to call it at the frat house when one of them got somebody off in less than sixty seconds – a soft-boiled egg. Ash remembered he'd always been good at giving head, but Dean was one of the most responsive lovers he'd ever had. At the speed – and pressure! – this was going he reckoned he'd score at least a hat trick.

Most guys he knew would have been insulted by being referred to as a slut. Ash was proud of it. He deserved the title – what on earth could be better than being comfortable on his knees and sucking Dean fucking Winchester's dick so hard that the man was ready to explode after less than a minute!

The only thing Ash regretted was that he couldn't suck Dean's balls into his mouth at the same time. He prided himself of his deep-throating technique and didn't think that many guys – or gals – could have taken Dean the way he could, man was hung like an elephant, but he'd really have loved to let his tongue play with the glands. They must be hard as marbles by now...

Ash's hand went to Dean's sac as he concentrated on the crown, swirling his tongue over the rim, then licking into the slit, trying to poke his tongue tip inside, licking him out greedily – Dean leaked like a fucking sieve. 

As he had suspected, Dean's balls were even harder and tighter than his dick. Ash was tempted to massage them down a little, but Dean was too far gone for that. Instead, he scraped his teeth very carefully over the glans, grinning inwardly when Dean's groans and grunts suddenly increased.

Right. He'd been warned. What a considerate lover indeed. Well, Ash was about to make the guy forget all the etiquette he might ever have learned. Lifting the heavy balls up to prepare them for their 'duty', he swallowed Dean down as deep as he could. His throat – his fucking trachea! – constricted around Dean as Ash felt him thicken impossibly.

This was it, the fraction of a second he loved most, just before the other guy let go. And now it had arrived. Ash closed his eyes and waited for the flood.

* * *

Dean was going to spew in two minutes or less, like a teenaged boy. A tongue prodded into his slit, and the havoc it wrecked on his nerves made Dean jerk and then fall back against the couch. Once Ash started playing with his balls, Dean was lost. He'd just have to make up for it later. Taking his aching dick in to the back of his throat and further, Ash pulsed around the head like a pro. Dean bit down on the side of his own hand to stifle his scream; his legs spasmed open wide, and he arched his back sharply, his body trying to cram every last millimeter into Ash's mouth.

As for the hillbilly nerd, he looked like he was loving every second of it. How could anyone smile with eight inches of cock in their oral cavity? Dean knew he made up in girth for all Sam was at least an inch lo-... No, think about something else, Dean. 

Or more like, think of nothing. His mind blanked, everything in his lower body clenching one instant, cumming the next, what felt like a gallon of jizz shooting from deep in his balls and out. Grunting like a wounded animal, Dean bit out, "Take it! Take it all... Fuck!" He couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Ash kept on swallowing, and he kept on pumping out seed. A few gushes more and he was down to a last weak spurt or two, and the aftershocks hit so hard it was nearly painful. Oversensitive, he had to break the suction of Ash's mouth on him by taking his chin in hand and pulling down. 

Dean fell over on his side, panting hard. "Needed it... Was good, man, awesome." Finally he could look over and blink, at least. "Owe you one. I'll fuck you good, in a little while, if you want." 

* * *

Whoa, when Dean said he'd needed it, Ash was immediately convinced. The guy had been more than desperate, and these final few seconds before he'd let go...

Dean was lying on the couch, shaking with aftershocks and somewhat cross-eyed. Ash sat back on his haunches. His dick was making angry demands, but, hey, mind over matter, right? And hadn't Dean just promised to fuck him good, in a little while – if he wanted?

Ash giggled. Did he want or what! "Yeah, take five, dude. I'm not going anywhere 'cept on my knees when you're ready again."

* * *

Dean just nodded, and Ash backed off to give him space. The guy was a real mind-reader, besides being a pole smoker extraordinaire. "Heh, thanks." A little self-conscious all sprawled with his junk hanging out, Dean sat up and looked around for clothes. He threw on his outer shirt, but didn't bother with the buttons, only draped the long tail over his assets.

Breathing easier, Dean looked around the room. There was plenty of PBR advertising and empty bear cans and bottles everywhere. The wall with his monitors, drives, and other computer gear looked like a NASA outpost, and across from there, a hydroponics set-up. Huh.

Ash was crouched nearby on his haunches, and he looked entirely comfortable doing it. From the position, Dean couldn't see whether he was hard or not, but was sure that Ash was, given his enthusiasm about going down and the pheromones Dean had picked up. "Five minutes... Maybe fifteen. Uh, anything I can do for you? I'm willing to lend a hand. Or... Maybe other stuff." He waggled his eyebrows. 

* * *

"Maybe other stuff – like bringing me off with your eyebrows?" Ash laughed. "No, seriously, dude, I'm fine. That was just..." he threw his head back, closed his eyes and licked his lips. "Yum, man!"

He grinned slyly. "You already offered what I want and the wait will make it all the sweeter." Throwing a meaningful look at Dean's half-mast erection – Ash couldn't say if it was still going down or already up again – he, too, waggled his eyebrows.

"You won't hear me complaining if it's five rather than fifteen minutes, though." An afterthought hit him. "Maybe we could hurry this up if I prep myself now, whaddaya think?"

* * *

Wow, Ash was all porn, all the time, once he got started. It didn't hurt that he eyed Dean appreciatively every five seconds and smacked his lips over the taste of his jizz, repeating that getting fucked by Dean's dick was exactly what he wanted. 

Ash's next suggestion nearly made Dean swallow his tongue. Of course he knew that when two men had sex, they needed lube and the bottom should be prepped, er, stretched. That part was the same with women, if you wanted them to enjoy it at all. That Ash would do that to himself, that anyone would – hell, yeah! The idea was making his cock twitch and try to fill again; he pressed a hand to it and squirmed. "Mm, I'd like that. If you'd... Give me a little show." 

* * *

"Oh yeah, gonna show off my assets to you," Ash's grin grew ever wider. Dean's reaction said he might be ready in even less than five minutes, and Ash was going to do all he could to help his new lover get there. And that included...

"I think you like my long hair, Dean, and since you're going to take me from behind... Does it remind you of Sam?" Ash smirked, picked up the lube, and turned slowly around. "Besides, I'm shaved where it counts."

He went down on his knees and spread his legs as far as he could without falling over, giving Dean the best possible view on his butt as well as his heavy balls.

"Now," Ash panted while he twisted off the cap off the lube tube. "I'm sure you've done this before, but did your girls ever give you the show?" He went down on all fours and spread his butt cheeks with one hand. 

"This is what you want, and where I want you." As he'd promised, Ash was clean-shaven. "See how much I want you!" He clenched and his entrance puckered rhythmically.

"Just gonna make it all slippery for you..." He slid a well-oiled finger inside himself and began fucking his hole, moaning loudly. "Dean, can't wait to have you spread me wide, fill me so nicely with your big dick!"

* * *

There he went again! Why did he have to keep bringing up Sam? The fact that it made Dean's erection grow made it more uncomfortable. "Oh, you _are_ a freak! Maybe you're the one who wants to pretend," Dean said in a leading tone of voice. "Huh? I'm bigger than you, but he's huge... Just think, that monster putting you under him, shoving it up inside you." 

Groaning low in his chest, Dean watched Ash closely. He trimmed, himself, but he'd never heard of a dude so thoroughly groomed, other than porn stars, probably. It was a nice view, everything hairless and shiny-slick with lube now that Ash had been going to town on himself. His skin was pale like anyone who seldom wore anything but jeans, but his sac was flushed dusky, and beyond, when it bounced, his dick, darker yet, swung with an upward curve. Tightly closed and pale pink at first, his hole pulsed around two invading fingers, which Ash had buried to the knuckles. "Oh yeah, nice _ass_ , by the way. Hey, can I ask you something?" 

About then, Ash twisted his wrist, his body jerking hard. Dean couldn't believe he was asking this. "So is it true what they say, that whole male g-spot thing?" 

* * *

_Interesting!_

"I won't ask how you know that he's bigger than you," Ash smirked, then groaned as he added a third finger. "But sure, yeah, shoving it up inside me – either of you – sounds good." He fucked himself faster.

"And I'm sure you'd just love to watch him doing me, don't you? Or no, wait, you wouldn't just watch. You'd step behind him and fuck him into me... Aaahh..." He slid his fingers deeper and curled them, groaning and shuddering from the spark his prostate sent through his body.

Dean's question almost made Ash's eyes bulge out. "Is it true? What, you never had your ass fingered? Not even by a chick? Dude, are you a fucking virgin?" That went both ways: if Dean didn't know what was hidden in his or other men's inner sanctum, he'd likely never been on the giving end with a guy, either.

Okay, Dean didn't look happy and Ash decided to backpedal. "Look, no insult intended here. It's more like you don't know what you're missing. Lemme tell you, in contrast to the female mystery spot, the male one really exists. Not every guy likes having his prostate played with – or at least they won't admit it – but those who do... Man, sometimes I can cum from it without having my dick touched. Some guys can have multiple orgasms, ever heard of that otherwise?"

Ash poured more lube onto his fingers and slowly worked a fourth finger into himself. "But let's stop with the theory here and get into a little more hands-on practice. See for yourself... " He brushed the gland again and moaned wantonly. "Or feel for yourself," he grinned. "You can practice on me all night long. And who knows, if you're up for a third round, I could show you a thing or two about your own body."

* * *

Everything in Dean was conflicted, so much he got very quiet for a minute or two. Virgin? He felt nothing but a combination of pity and contempt for the lot of them. Calling him a virgin was like saying Led Zeppelin sucked. He couldn't really answer much in the way of Ash's questions or banter without giving himself away. It all boiled down to two things. One, that his dick was so hard, imagining watching Sammy fucking.... well, just _fucking_ in general. And two, "You tell anyone, I'll hunt you down, and it'll be the last time you ever say such... Say things..." Dean couldn't really even say which things, exactly. He was pathetic. "Do _not_ talk about my brother like that. You don't know... He could die. Or lose an arm. So shut your cakehole about him already." There. Dean congratulated himself on finally coming up with a legit reason for Ash to shut up about Sam. He reached over and smacked Ash on the side of his buttcheek to lessen the potential impact of his outburst.

Back to the virgin thing – why would a normal hetero male be anything but? His mind said, 'Butt!' and Dean snorted. That was no way to speak to his host. "Sorry, man. Force of habit. Please, though... Whatever I tell you stays in this room." The thing Ash had said about multiple orgasms, especially, interested him. Women could do that – theoretically. In Dean's experience, it happened when they were super horny, enough to take control. There was no magic button, only mindset.

"My ass isn't a virgin... Technically. But it's been years and it was only like once. No, I've never fucked a dude. Fingered? Touched, but nothing like what you're doing, that's for damn sure! Got rimmed a couple of times." Dean had liked that, he reflected, although it had been over too fast in favor of straight-up sex. His face grew hot, remembering what he'd done just that morning. Sam on his belly on the bed, loaded balls tightening, ass in the air framed by Dean's own hands and- No, Dean! And yet, a drop or two of precum oozed from his slit, and Dean grabbed and squeezed his cock to milk more out that he could feel working its way up his tube. 

"So, when I fuck you, will I touch it with my dick? Your... prostate?" It sounded too good to be true. "Aw, c'mon, man, you're shitting me, right? That's the thing that old men are always bitching about, that swells up so they can't piss." Of course, he wanted to make Ash feel good, and Dean wasn't adverse to learning something new about sex, not at all. He was ready, any time, and the first seeing-red rush of intense need was behind him with the last orgasm. Whatever Ash was doing to himself, Dean didn't think he was faking the pleasure. Offhandedly, he wondered how thin the walls might be. By habit, for having to be stealthy about it for so many years, Dean was not a screamer. But if it got really good... Well, he did tend to moan a lot. The low pitch of his voice and even lower wordless groans didn't carry too badly. But who knew? And frankly, he was willing to have his mind blown. 

* * *

"Dean." The sudden change in the atmosphere could not be missed. Ash pulled his fingers out of his ass and turned to face Dean. "Sam will be fine. Trust Charlie. He really knows what he's doing. And I'll shut up about him now." He didn't apologize for bringing up Sam – after all, it had been Dean's remark on Sam's size and being under him that had made him continue – but he understood and respected that Dean was worried.

"About things staying in this room, I don't kiss and tell. Or fuck and tell – or let myself be fucked in this case. And unless you prefer to wait until the bar is empty and it's all quiet, nobody else will know what we're doing in here."

Dean pointed out that he had some degree of experience, and Ash left it at that. Even he knew that one didn't discuss former lovers in bed – or whatever counted as bed.

"I sure hope you'll touch my prostate with your dick," Ash went on to answer Dean's question. "If you treat it right, I'll hear the angels sing. Not literally, of course, but, yeah, it's hard to describe, really. Just wait and see." He grinned. "As long as you don't wait too long, that is. Every second we wait, our prostates grow older and larger. So, what say you? Ready for round two? I am!"

* * *

Hearing Ash's assurances about Charlie's skill was a little out-of-place, though welcome. And apparently the resident geek wanted his ass reamed – _now._ Well, he hadn't cum before, so no wonder. 

"Yeah, dude, I'm ready!" Dean grinned, gesturing at his groin, where his erection hadn't abated. "Didn't mean to be a buzz-kill. They're less likely to hear us when everyone's talking and the jukebox is on, I reckon, as long as you don't screech like a cat in heat or something. Back that ass up and let's see what I can do..." Distractedly, Dean felt around for the strip of condoms, found it, and got himself gloved up. 

Ash's hole was plenty stretched and glistening with all the lube he'd used. "Pass the lube... Unless you wanna do it." Dean paused, looking at Ash who had turned his upper body around to leer at him. He chuckled. "You look like Christmas just came early, complete with a pair of naughty elves." 

* * *

"If you're as good as you promise to be, there's indeed a risk that I may scream the house down," Ash grinned. "D'you want me to wear a gag? Biting down on you is out I fear; it'll be hard to find a place that isn't bruised already."

Ash frowned. With Dean's injuries, it wouldn't be easy to find a comfortable position. He'd leave that entirely to Dean. Reaching for the lube tube again, he drizzled a copious amount of the slick substance on Dean's cock. "Cold," he warned although there was no real need for a warning: no temperature would take that erection down.

"So, now, you tell me how you want to do it. I mean, I don't wanna hurt you, and I think I'm kind of... more _flexible_ right now." Ash couldn't wait to feel Dean inside him, but he was willing to let the man make up his mind. There was no reason, though, why he shouldn't enjoy the wait, and he began lazily stroking himself.

* * *

Dean hissed as cold lube drizzled on his dick; it heated almost instantly. "Not worried about you hurting me," he grunted. "Lean over the couch, here... I'll take you from behind," there was a hint of mimic in his voice, "just like you said." He pushed the low table in front of the couch out of the way with one foot.

Going to his knees on the floor, Dean dropped his shirt for the second time. Ash moved over into position in a flash. Dean wanted to laugh when he noticed the wide-spread thighs, arched back, and pushed-out ass – like a girl, or at least he'd only ever seen a chick do that before – only it was actually seductive, in its raunchiness. "Jesus, Ash...! Aren't you a slut?" He still felt kind of awkward, just knowing this was a man, but Dean shrugged and crawled over so he was kneeling between Ash's knees. He pushed up the sleeveless plaid shirt and grabbed onto Ash's hipbone with his left hand, guiding his dick with the right. 

"Oh, fuck!" Heat... And slick...! He'd had four fingers in there but Ash still gripped him like a very strong fist. Once Dean popped the head of his cock through the ring, it was a little easier. Right hand now free, Dean gripped Ash's shoulder tight, hauling him upright. He loved the contact, the man's shoulder blades scraping against his nipples. "How's that?" It was a struggle to stay still, once he was balls deep. "Not hurting you, am I?" 

* * *

When Dean told him how he wanted him, Ash got into position lightning fast. Leaning over the couch, he reached behind him and spread his cheeks wide in invitation, giggling when Dean called him a slut. "Guilty as charged," he grinned. "And not regretting it. White picket fences wouldn't get me this kind of fun with you, right?" He clenched his hole again. "Come on, man."

Ash echoed Dean's curse when Dean worked himself into Ash's body. "Fuck, yeah!" It was perfect, Dean's dick stretching him just right. He couldn't wait for Dean to start thrusting. Then Dean pulled him up against his chest, asking if it hurt him.

"The only way you're gonna hurt me is if you don't move soon," Ash panted. "Blue balls, dude!"

Feeling Dean's body flush against his, Ash added, "Just make sure to keep your ribs safe. And now, fuck me, please!"

* * *

"Alright, you asked for it." Dean was already in motion. Giving Ash what he wanted coincided with Dean taking what _he_ wanted and if his side still hurt like a bitch, it wasn't going to stop him. 

"Uh... Uh!" Oh fuck yeah. Dean unleashed the tamped-down fear, worry, that deadly love-and-lust combination he felt toward Sam and the stresses of the past day and a half into vicious thrusts that jarred Ash's body. In so deep, almost all the way out, slam it in again, and again... He wound a hand into that long dirt-blond hair and pulled, used it like a handle. He didn't want kissing and sweet; Ash would speak up if he needed to and unless he did, Dean was going to keep rutting on him like an animal. 

"So tight... Ugh! Yeah..." It was true. Either Ash was naturally like that or he had a hell of a clench – as many times as he'd flexed his hole at Dean already, that had to be true, regardless. Dean could feel himself swelling. He was so caught up, in the zone, of the increasing rhythm of his spine curving, hips thrusting, ass bunching and releasing, the sting in his balls as they swung and spanked Ash's, his toes digging into the old nasty carpet. The feral completeness was imperfect only in that he wasn't claiming his mate, yet he was grateful along with amped up in the extreme for what Ash was allowing him. 

So, that thing... "'m I hitting it yet?" he asked between breaths. "Tell me, man. Do I...?" Pushing his knees further apart, Dean thrust upwards a few strokes. "What's it feel like?" He changed pattern again. It felt damn good to let his hips roll in tight little circles now. Releasing his grip on Ash's hair, he slid his hands over the other man's body, appreciating the wiry muscle under his hands. 

* * *

Finally, _finally_ Dean went at it, and Ash was immediately caught up in the passion. Dean fucked him as if there was no tomorrow. When he groaned out that Ash was so tight, Ash clenched as hard as he could, while somehow still managing to push back and meet Dean's thrusts.

_"Fuuuck...!"_ he yowled when Dean changed his angle and banged straight on his gland. "Do I" – _gasp_ – "really need" – _pant_ – "to-tell-you-how... grrnnnahhh!" Shudders of delight and desperate need coursed through his body. "Feels fucking... gnnnnh... Oh, shut up asking! I'm... gonna... Shit, Dean, there! Right there! Yeah, that's it! Harder, man, gimme all you have!"

* * *

Ha. Ash was making a hell of a lot of noise and wiggling like crazy, which Dean took to mean he was doing it right. Good. Great! Now he would just keep going... And going... Getting close now. They were both sweating, Ash's back and ass sliding off Dean's chest and groin. Having a dude under him felt strangely liberating, like he didn't have to be so careful; it could've been a wrestling match if Ash wasn't so damned into following every single move, like he was dying for this. 

"I... I... 'M gonna blow... Ash!" Dean hissed. He threw his head back, pushing forward with his lower body. With a grunt, he buried himself as deep as he could go and clutched at Ash's hipbones while his balls heaved their load in several harsh jets. He ground and ground, a growl of completion forcing its way out. At the last moment, Dean remembered he wasn't the only participant here and slid a hand down around Ash's waist and between his legs. "Want a hand?" The rock-hard and twitching dick he found practically leaped into his hand, so Dean wrapped his hand around as tightly as he could, aftershocks making his body jerk, and squeezed.

* * *

Dean kept pounding his ass and picked up speed. Sex with women was nice but this... Ash threw his head back and howled. The continuing pummeling of his pleasure spot had him on the edge in no time. He kept tightening his entrance, adding to the sensation and making it good for Dean at the same time – at least, Ash loved it when someone was doing this for him. He knew he was going over the moment Dean hit his peak.

The Dean announced that he was about to blow and called out his name. Suddenly, the tightness in Ash's ass increased as Dean shuddered and spasmed, forcing himself in as deeply as he could. Ash felt the flood rise from his own balls. Yes, yes, this was gonna be so good!

How Dean managed to be aware of his partner's needs while he still was shaking in the throes of his climax, Ash couldn't comprehend; his brain had migrated to his lower body. Dean asked him if he wanted a hand, which, with any other lover he'd have appreciated, but with Dean buried deep inside him, there was no need. Dean reached for Ash's dick, but even before he got a feel for it, it exploded in Dean's hand, splattering cum in a wide arc onto the couch.

Ash pressed back, willing Dean deeper although it wasn't possible. After an initial, primal, scream, he turned silent and rode the waves of pleasure until his body was jerking with the aftershocks. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, struggling for breath.

White noise humming in his ears, Ash noticed several things at once. Dean had gone silent. The music from the pub had died down, too. And someone was hammering on his door.

"Dean?" Ellen yelled as loud as she could. "You in there? Sam needs you now!"


	7. Chapter 7

Shit, shit shit! Someone was pounding on the door and the voice calling his name from the hallway belonged to Ellen. Dean must have lost track of time; he didn't think he'd been here long. And... Look at him! He was naked, and reeked to high heaven of cheap scotch, sweat, sex. Ellen would nail his ass to the wall, not that he'd acknowledge it but he cringed inwardly while he pulled out of Ash. Dammit! His hand was covered with semen, which he discovered when he went to hold on to the condom as he pulled out. 

"Yeah, I'm here," he yelled. "Just a minute, Ellen. Be right out." God, what if Sam was awake? How could he face his brother like this? Wobbling to his feet, Dean wiped his hand off on the couch, which was already decorated with a puddle of Ash's fresh cum, and tried to pull his pants on. That wasn't going to work yet. He grinned sheepishly at Ash and found his shirt. His fingers were slow and clumsy. Well, what did he expect, getting his rocks off twice in a row after the kind of day he'd had? This seemed unreal, fucking like a beast and in the next minute, scrambling for his clothes like a busted kid. 

Fumbling about, Dean got himself presentable. It was too bad he didn't have time to smoke a bowl, but if he kept Ellen waiting... Well. He ducked into the tiny bathroom off Ash's room to dispose of the condom and wash his hands. There was a bottle of mouthwash on the edge of the sink, and he 'borrowed' some of that. "Thanks for..." He addressed Ash, who was also pulling himself together. "Well, just thanks." He smiled and winked – he could do that much; the guy deserved a lot better. Maybe a case of PBR when he got a chance. 

Time to face the music. Dean adjusted his face into a typical surly pout and opened the door. "Hey, Ellen, what's up with Sam?" 

* * *

"Well, don't thank me, dude," Ash replied, sighing wistfully as Dean's nice body disappeared under the clothes. "If you insist on proving your gratitude, you're welcome to return for an encore, of course." He grinned and turned immediately serious again. "All the best for Sam, man."

* * *

Outside Ash's room, Ellen was tapping her foot nervously. Not long ago, she'd feared they'd have to knock Dean out in order to leave Sam to Charlie. Now that Charlie had concluded the surgery, she'd hurried to get Dean, whom she'd been sure was tearing at the walls. Instead, the guy just told her he'd be out in a minute. The minute had already stretched into more than three, and there was still no sign of him.

When the door finally opened, Dean stepped out, wearing a perfect mask of 'I'm not concerned at all.' Ellen was tempted to slap the expression right off his face. It didn't get any better when he asked her, "Hey, Ellen, what's up with Sam?" 

The surgery had been touch and go. Not so much because of the wound and the infection itself, but because of Sam's severely weakened state. The rough life hunters led could only be held partially responsible for that. She'd discovered another reason when she'd rifled through Sam's duffel for clean clothes for the boy.

"What's up with Sam?" Ellen forced her tone to be sweet and calm. "Nothing. Except that we nearly lost him, of course. _What the hell were you thinking, feeding your brother amphetamines?"_

* * *

There was news. Ellen waited impatiently in the dim, narrow hallway. Dean snapped to attention fast, although he tried not to give anything away by facial expression. _Nearly lost him_ left him with a queasy, sinking feeling, followed by nothing less than victory and elation that Sam lived, and then a frisson of shame, an emotion he avoided at all costs, over what he'd just–

Wait, what? "Amphetamines??" It had been since he'd cut things off with Sam, after he dropped out of high school, that he'd tried any. It was true: Dean had turned into a stoner for half a year, hitting harder drugs in a downward spiral of apathy. A person could say 'he had gone through a phase'... where he hadn't given a shit if he woke, hunted, or anything else. Only threats of disownment, and the eventual transference of the Impala's ownership had pulled him out of it. "Give me a break, I didn't give him that!" Dean barked. "The kid already doesn't sleep."

Then it hit him. That was how Sam had been staying awake, claiming coffee, natural inclination and the fervent need to research as enough to prevent him from sleeping. Dean knew about the first two. He rarely slept more than four hours at a stretch. His body refused to be shut down and vulnerable for longer. 

"Well, now I know why. I'm going to kick his ass!" Dean growled at no one in particular. Ellen wouldn't be impressed, but too bad. He strode toward the make-shift clinic room, intent on a few choice words if nothing else. 

"Sammy?" 

* * *

_"Sammy?"_

The door opened and Dean stomped into the room. Sam smiled. They'd promised him everything would be good, and now it was. Dean had taken him to Harvelle's, and Ellen's doctor friend had taken care of Sam's arm. 

"Dean." His voice was still hoarse, but it didn't matter. Neither did the pain. His brother was here, that was all that counted. Or, wait... Sam frowned. The expression on Dean's face was one of rage although he could see the vulnerability underneath. Dean looked ready to explode, and Sam couldn't think of a reason why. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Then Dean approached the exam table on which Sam was lying, and Sam's eyes widened as the smell hit him. Sweat – no surprise there. Cheap booze – no surprise, either. Semen and... _shit_ , literally. Dean had had sex while Sam had focused on thinking of his brother in order to fight the agony in his arm when Charlie had cut into him. And not only that: Dean had had sex – _with a guy!_ Only a few hours after refusing to make love to Sam because Sam was a man!

Sam's world crumbled to pieces in less than a second. Under the bright light, there was no way he could hide his tears. The only way out was attacking rather than displaying his broken defenses.

"So, I see that you found a way to keep yourself busy and happy while I was in surgery," he sneered in the nastiest voice he could muster.

* * *

He knew. Somehow, Sam had figured it out. Had to be that oversensitive nose. Dean was stricken, because he'd meant for Sam never to find out about his little 'detour' with Ash. Sam's eyes went from open and soulful to black with rage. 

Big deal. Dean had blown off some steam, some of the intense worry about Sam himself without further damage to himself or any of the Roadhouse's walls or customers, and picked up some useful information in the process. But Sam wasn't likely to see it that way. Oh, was he ever not. Not when sleeping with someone, to him, meant being in love. Or, that's what he'd told Dean, the hypocrite. What the fuck did he care?

Plus, he had his own answering-for. _And,_ if Dean remembered correctly, the last parts of their exchange before Dean had clocked his spazzed-out ass involved Sam screaming that he hated Dean. 'Done with you.' Something that was unclear, about rape. Keep his hands off. Never mind Dean was dying to touch him, hug him, anything, the longing for it hotter than Death Valley in July. That was over. So fucking over. 

"None of your concern," Dean bit out. "You're done with me, remember? But I'm still responsible for you, little brother. Now what's this I hear about you being strung out on uppers? Are you _stupid?"_

Looking at Charlie and Ellen, Dean moved a few steps away from Sam and focused on his caretakers, who had said nothing. His ear tips turned pink, that they'd witnessed what likely looked like a lover's quarrel. "Tell me everything, and don't spare the details. He's not losing his arm, right?" 

* * *

_"You're done with me, remember?"_

It was too much. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and gave himself over to the pain and fever.

* * *

First Dean, and now Sam. Ellen wanted nothing more than bash their heads together. What was going on between them, anyway? Siblings fought, this much was well known. If it went further than that, she couldn't say, but whatever it was wasn't helped by Sam, stoned and feverish, and Dean, sleep-deprived and sick with worry.

She exchanged a look with Charlie. His grim smile reassured her: her man would take care of this for the moment. With any luck, Dean would agree to rest, and meanwhile Sam could sleep off the sedatives they'd given him. Charlie wouldn't risk putting a patient under who was so weakened as Sam, and local anesthesia didn't work too well on infected tissues. Charlie had sedated Sam and promised that he wouldn't remember anything. Ellen hoped that Sam wouldn't remember this scene either.

* * *

"All right, Dean," Charlie raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sit down, please, and we'll talk." Dean looked reluctant when he sank down on one of the metal chairs. He didn't seem appeased but at least willing to listen.

"I removed the dead tissue," Charlie explained, sticking to laymen's terms as always when he was talking to relatives. "The wound needs to heal from the inside out, which is going to take a while. All in all, I'm confident that his arm will be okay eventually. However," he narrowed his eyes and looked at Dean as sternly as he could, "if there's any sign of sepsis – the infection getting into the bloodstream – he goes to a hospital. I don't have the resources to treat that, and I won't care about you hunters' reluctance to show up in the system."

Dean looked murderous, but he lowered his eyes under Charlie's gaze. Apparently, the fear for his brother was stronger than the urge to avoid hospitals at all cost. "What worries me is that Sam is so weak in general. The wound was serious, but it shouldn't have turned so bad this quickly. We found a nearly empty bottle of uppers, amphetamines, with his things, which suggests he's been taking them for some time. You can probably guess that these drugs can seriously weaken one's defenses."

Charlie paused. "Is there anything you can tell me about your brother's drug use? You won't help him by keeping his secrets," he added.

* * *

Even Dean, for all his Dad had ingrained in him that you stay the hell off 'the grid', including all medical facilities but the most basic and backwoods, knew he would not risk Sam's life over it. He gave over on that point by way of not snapping a contradictory reply, and lowering his eyes for a moment. Hunters and their kind were mostly solitary or travelling in pairs, but more than that meeting took on its own sort of rules, 'pack rules', as Dean grew up thinking, and for this, Charlie was Alpha. He had an inward laugh thinking that Charlie might be Ellen's bitch at other times, but he didn't do so out loud, knowing he ran the risk of becoming hysterical.

But this...? Sam, taking hardcore drugs? Well, that depended on how much or how often, but it wasn't like him at all. "I swear to god, I didn't know," Dean told Charlie, looking him square in the face. "He never told me. He doesn't... He never has, done stuff like that. Back to nature boy, likes rabbit food and whole wheat and all that crap. He hasn't been sleeping much. But I don't, so I didn't think much of it. The kid's hyper anyway, jiggling his knees, feet, mind going 24/7. Always been. Drugs? He's been stoned a few times. We both drink some but he's a lightweight." Every word that Dean said felt like betrayal. He didn't know shit but hunters – brothers – just didn't spill details on each other. He shrugged. "Till five minutes ago, I'd never have thought there was anything to cover up." 

"Is he going to go through detox?" Dean didn't know any serious addicts who'd tried to come off that sort of thing. Partway through a bottle didn’t make Sam an addict, however. "You said he's weak. How bad? What'll it take to get him back up to speed?" What it felt like, to Dean, was like he was asking how much time he had with his brother. Once he healed, Sam would take off on his own and never look back. He'd done it before, hadn't he? 

* * *

"I can't tell for sure how long he'll need to recover," Charlie replied. "We got his fever down a bit and I'm confident that he'll be okay. First and foremost, he needs to rest. As do you," he added pointedly. "I suggest we take Sam to bed, and then I want a look at you, too, before you sleep. And that's doctor's orders."

Charlie was worried. Sam shouldn't have been hit so hard by this initially mild injury. Wounds got infected, but this had gone south far too quickly... unless Dean had lied about the circumstances, but Charlie doubted that. As much tension as there was between the brothers, Dean's worry was real.

"Okay, Sam, let's take you to a more comfortable place," Charlie said to his – first – patient. He approached the exam table and made Sam sit up slowly. The younger Winchester did as he was bidden but refused to open his eyes. Charlie picked him up in his arms. The boy was heavy, but they didn't have far to go. 

"Dean, please wait for me here. I won't be long, just get Sam settled, and then I'll be back for you. Ellen will look after him, so you needn't worry for him."

* * *

Doctor's orders indeed. If Charlie was so good, then he'd quickly realize he couldn't do anything for Dean. He slumped in his chair and regretted it when a line of fire shot from his side, around his chest and back. The room stank of disinfectant and death, from whatever Charlie had cut from Sam's arm. 

The order to stay put didn't sit well with him either. Sam was several inches taller than Charlie and out of it. What if he dropped him? Dean wasn't near enough to get there in time to catch Sam's lanky and unsteady form, and after the accusation – true, but it still stung – from a moment ago, Dean wasn't exactly eager to get too near his brother again, not till he showered, for sure. His clothes stank, too. Sitting there helpless pissed him off to no end. The noise buzzing in his head was too damned loud. 

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean burst out. Sam's eyelids were down, but he wasn't asleep. "You stupid son of a bitch. Brainiac like you should know the whole list of side effects. How long? What else are you taking, huh? We can't even get antibiotics legally, and this is what you're into?!" 

After he'd been shot, Dean would have done almost anything to get Sam the medicine he needed. Apparently Sam had 'better' ideas about what he needed. And, for the record, Dean wasn't some right-wing, war-on-drugs freak. Anything, anything at all hurting Sam was in his line of fire. He'd have to get over that. Kicking the nubby back grips of his boot against the floor, Dean raised his eyes to the slow progression retreating from the room. Already he felt the hole in his life. 

* * *

When Dean spoke up, Charlie felt Sam flinch in his arms, then heard a soft whimpered, "No." As much as Charlie could sympathize with Dean, Sam needed to rest, but even before he laid Sam on the bed in the guest room, he knew that wasn't going to happen easily. The boy was tense, he thrashed his head, clenched and unclenched his hands into fists, moaning when the moves pulled at his torn muscle, all the while asking for Dean in a broken voice.

Debating with himself if they should get Dean, Charlie decided against it. Dean was in a state himself, and things would only go downhill if the brothers met again right now. Then again, Sam wouldn't keep still. Charlie reached for one of the ampoules on the tray he'd prepared earlier and drew up 5cc. 

"It's all right, Sam," he said while injecting the drug into Sam's line. "I'm going to take a look at Dean's face and chest now and then he needs to rest." 

Some of the tension fled from Sam's face. Apparently, the younger brother was ready to wait if it meant that Dean's injuries were taken care of. Charlie had guessed right: both Winchesters were more worried about each other than about themselves. He'd make use of this to get them both to rest, hoping that they'd be able to resolve their issues after a good night's sleep.

Sam's eyelids fluttered, and then he was out.

Charlie turned to Ellen with a smile. "You know what to do. Call me if you need help." 

She replied, "Don't underestimate Dean. He won't be as easy to deal with." Ellen smiled grimly. "Call _me_ if _you_ need help."

He nodded. "Will do. See you later."

Dean looked on the verge of collapse, both physically and emotionally, when Charlie returned to the small exam room. The older Winchester tried visibly to pull himself together, but it wasn't a convincing performance.

"You're tired," Charlie said. "Let's get this over with so you can rest. Please take your shirt off and lie on the table."

* * *

It took everything in Dean to just sit there. He was sure he could hear Sam through the walls, calling for him. Both his brother and the doctor had ignored him as he'd unleashed just a small portion of venom, leaving to, presumably, put Sam to bed. Ellen had followed after as well, or he'd have lit into her, just for the satisfaction of getting a reaction, and probably not a good one.

Dean took the time to recall what he remembered from his own days of uppers and downers and deep, dark self-loathing. Was that Sam's problem? He still blamed himself for Jess's death, no matter that it was clear as day to everyone that it wasn't is fault. What the hell else? There was no reason for him to be on the same non-sleeping schedule as Dean – Dean was well aware that he wasn't normal that way, and that his body would catch up when it had time. It was nothing for him to sleep 18 hours or more when they actually had time off and were safe, rare though those occasions were.

At the time, he'd been 19, almost 20, and it started after he put an end to his and Sam's two years of playing around with each other sexually. Other than the necessities of hunting, it was the first 'real' adult decision he had made. To this day, maybe especially this day, he regretted it. It had driven a wedge between them so profound it was like they had become two entirely different people than before, keeping the same skills and mannerisms but in everything else cautious and hard and built on the paramilitary discipline they'd been raised to. And he couldn't take it, could not take being separated from his brother's warmth and his body and his love. So, he found a substitute. Something to produce the elation, the dopamine, oxytocin, all those things. And the reverse, so he could crash. Over weeks, he'd gotten shaky and strung out. He was constantly sweating; sometimes his stomach would cramp so bad he couldn't stand. A couple of times, his heart raced and wouldn't slow down, then burst into palpitations and pain that scared him shitless. So he quit. Holed himself in some dive and didn't get out of bed for a month.

Eventually, they found him. Of course they did. Someone had seen him hiking it to a convenience store for ding-dongs and beer, and a day later, his Dad and Bobby had been pounding on the door, kicking it in. He didn't even want to remember the conversation that ensued. Basically get it together or they'd take him out behind the junkyard and put him out his misery. Or, he could find his own way in the world because no self-respecting hunter was going to have anything to do with his sorry ass.

The overlaid imagery of Sam getting that bad nearly ripped him half. The benzies or whatever he was taking was enough to leach away his body's natural immunity and resistance. Dean wondered, what else? Did he get the shakes? So far, he hadn't witnessed anything like that. It was going to have to stop now.

Charlie reappeared in a while. Dean was still sitting there. Might as well get this over with. Rising slowly and taking off his shirt, he crawled up onto the table. He almost expected it to still be warm from Sam's body, but it was chilly. "I still say you can't do anything for me, unless you have some nice knock-out drugs," Dean told the doctor, tipping his chin up defiantly. "Cracked ribs on this side, probably. We got in a fight with the local PD. So, I've already lived with it for a day. Ugly, huh?" There was some strange pride that he still had at being able to function, however badly, as beat up as he was. Dean's mouth twisted as Charlie began to examine him.

* * *

"Ugly," Charlie agreed. "I can't help you much with that, I'm afraid. As for knock-out drugs, they don't mix well with the alcohol you've had. There are a few other things I can do for you pain-wise, but let's see first what exactly we're dealing with."

The right side of Dean's chest was a rainbow of colors. A swollen bruise in a blue so dark it looked black, streaked with red, covered at least three ribs, then faded out into a sickly yellow-green. If Dean had caught this punch on his left side, Charlie would have been worried for his spleen. Dean suspected that his ribs were cracked, and Charlie tended to agree. If they were broken, he doubted that Dean would have been able to carry Sam. Still, he couldn't rule out fractures; people in desperate situations sometimes developed miraculous strength for the sake of loved ones.

"I'll be as gentle as I can, but this will still hurt," Charlie warned Dean. Not for the first time, he wished they had an X-ray device available, but this would always remain wishful thinking. He placed his hands on Dean's chest, carefully palpating for lumps under the bruises. 

Dean tensed but didn't make a sound. "There are no obvious fractures," Charlie told him, "but you'd have spotted those anyway. Now try to think of something nice."

He pressed down carefully, feeling for changes in elasticity of the bone under his probing fingers.

* * *

Dammit. Charlie refused to give him something to make him sleep. Dean looked up at the ceiling and tried not to think about his injuries. Maybe he understood the logic but that didn't mean he had to like it. Well, he'd borne it this long, and he wasn't a pussy. He'd lived through worse. 

Though Charlie wasn't rough on him at all, the pressure on his torso, over his bruises and cracked ribs, made Dean tense and bite his lip nearly bloody. When he'd been taking care of Sam earlier, his own pain didn't matter – it was there but not the focus of his attention, other than in small moments just before and after sleep.

"Well, what do you think? Nothing for it but time." Since they'd offered him a place to stay, that's all he wanted now. He'd had his drink and sex and now he needed to add sleep to the healing equation. It probably would not be all that comfortable. Or private. They'd be somewhat safe here, at least. But first, he needed more information about Sam.

This guy had better level with him. Dean was getting tired of being ignored. "Alright now, Doc, I'd like your professional opinion. About Sam. I wasn't lying when I said I didn't know. I... I've had a history with this shit, too. Don't think it's gone on long or I'd have seen more signs than not sleeping. Unless he presents different. Sam's always been, well, a little different. Should he be locked up? Not in rehab but like, secluded? We have this friend, he has this place... well, never mind." He pulled a face he hoped would come off as concerned, but not willing to take any crap. 

* * *

"Actually, while only time will heal your ribs, I can still make you more comfortable," Charlie said when he'd finished examining Dean's chest. "If we can get the swelling down, there'll be less pressure on the nerves, so let's start with that. Then, I suggest we wrap your chest up in a bandage. See, you're adjusting your posture in order to avoid pain, and the bandage will take care of that."

He turned his attention to Dean's face. "Same procedure here," he explained. "I'm checking for fractures, then I want to take a look at your eye." Trauma could lead to a detached retina, and a hunter needed two eyes. Again, he wished he had better equipment, but a cursory exam would have to do.

"About Sam, I know this is hard, but try not to worry about him tonight. We're taking care of him. Right now, his arm and his fever are his first and foremost problems. If you found him any different since he got shot, that's probably on the wound and the infection."

Charlie was surprised that Dean admitted to his own earlier drug problems. Did he feel guilty for not noticing that his younger sibling was resorting to uppers? Or maybe he just wanted to emphasize how worried he was. "I can't make a prognosis about a degree of addiction or the need for rehab before I've spoken with Sam. If he goes into withdrawal now, I'll give him something for it. He needs to get over the infection before his body can cope with the additional strain of detoxing. But it may not be necessary if his habit is recent."

While speaking, Charlie had examined Dean's face. "No fractures here, either. As for your ribs, I suggest an ointment to get the swelling down. Now for your eye. I want to know about your vision. Can you see at all? If so, is it blurry or clear? Full view or tunnel vision or a shadow? Any change in color or brightness perception? Do you see anything that shouldn't be there, as in moving things or brightness flashes?"

* * *

"I haven't had time to do anything for myself, like, take care of myself. Ice for swelling, right." Just another reason why Dean should have stopped at any of the small towns they'd passed through, for ice. "Never heard of ointment for that." Charlie was right that he moved... Off-kilter. He was sore as hell. 

"Nothing wrong with my vision. I can see fine. The lid's been swollen nearly shut since last night, but there's no spots or flashes or weird colors, none of that." Charlie finally stopped touching him, and Dean blew out a sigh of relief. It had been altogether too touchy-feely of a day, never mind the 'why' on that. This was nothing like what had gone on with Sam then Ash, true. Just the fact that the doctor was human made it too much. 

Stone-faced, Dean listened to one big 'I don't know' answer about Sam's drug usage. Oh, goodie. He supposed he should appreciate that Charlie didn't spout theoretical lies. He wasn't. Nothing about that situation was going to make him happy. Maybe Charlie had said more to Ellen, that he could glean from her later. 

In the end, Dean let Charlie wrap his ribs and swab some ointment on. It did have a cooling, numbing effect. Camphor? Exhaustion was setting in, kicking his ass. He wanted to ask more questions, but nothing coherent came to mind. "Where do I sleep?" Dean finally asked. "Or, better, is there somewhere to clean up? Ellen might have noticed, we're not exactly flush in spare clothes." Or anything else. He was going to have to hustle, and soon. 

"Oh, and thanks for seeing to Sammy," Dean said gruffly. Ellen's asking price was all intangible. Not that Dean was trying to insult the guy's honor, but he should get this out of the way. "You want something for that, you come to me, got it?"

* * *

"Well, if you've never heard of it, here's a word you should keep in mind: heparin. It's a blood thinner, but also very useful with bruises because it helps the breakdown of the blood that leaked into the surrounding tissues," Charlie explained. "If you like, I can get you some for your medical kit later, but let's finish here first."

He handed Dean his shirt after bandaging his chest. "Ellen put you in her bedroom for tonight as she and I will watch over your brother. Don't worry about cleaning up – not after I've just fixed your dressing. Tomorrow, we'll find you a shower and something to wear."

Charlie opened one of the drawers and filled a cup with water, then held out the cup and two pills to Dean. "These won't make you sleep but they won't interfere with the alcohol and they'll help with the pain. Ellen or I will come check on you later and if you're still awake, we'll deal with it then."

After Dean had gulped down the pills and the water, Charlie said, "You don't owe me anything for seeing Sam, as you already made your deal with Ellen. However, if you're offering, I could need a hand with my car. Ellen says you're a good mechanic whereas I..." He shrugged. "I should warn you, though." Charlie broke into a lopsided smile. "According to Ellen, I drive a 'douche-mobile.'"

* * *

"Well, you saw what I drive. Everything's douche-y compared to my baby," Dean snorted. "What do you have – a Prius or something? Actually, we're down to next to nothing for first aid, so I'll take whatever's on offer." He added to himself, _'and five finger discount, the rest'._ If Charlie's car was nothing but electronics, as most modern ones were, Dean had his doubts, but he'd worry about it tomorrow. 

Ellen's bed? As in, Ellen's and Charlie's, from what Ash had told him. Dean wrinkled his face, hoping the sheets were clean. He and Sam had left quite a mess for... Oh, god, he _had_ to stop that. To cover whatever slipped onto his face, Dean took the pills Charlie handed him and then water. His body would need it, too. 

He pulled his shirt on again, only bothering with a couple buttons. "We done here? I've no idea where Ellen's room is–" he hoped that Charlie rightly appreciated this little fact, "–so if you could tell me how to find it..." 

* * *

"Ah, well, I'll show you my car tomorrow – I don't want to cause you nightmares," Charlie chuckled. 

"Come on, then. I'll show the way. Ellen's bedroom is the second next to the guest room where we will look after your brother. You will also find us there if you need help. Do you know which guest room I'm talking about?"

Charlie wasn't sure if Dean would later remember much of their conversation. The man was on the verge of collapsing, but he'd appreciate waking up in a bed the next morning, not on an exam table.

"Would you like me to help or do you prefer to sit up and walk on your own?"

* * *

"Nightmares? Must be the Rainbow Brite-mobile or something." So overtired he was getting silly, Dean slid his semi-stoned ass off the examining table and steadied himself. 

"I c'n walk," Dean insisted. He would have to remember heparin – he'd heard of it but only as something in pill form. It was already helping, as well as whatever he'd swallowed. "But I don't know the way. Uh... Can you point me in the right direction?" It was stupid. On any other day, he'd just go find it, but it seemed too daunting. Oh, shit. What if this guy thought Dean was propositioning him? There hadn't been one flicker of attraction so far... Ellen had him on lock. Dean snorted. He'd be getting sloppy seconds – or thirds – if he did want to–

"Dammit!" The next thing Dean knew he was telling his legs to walk... And they turned into overcooked spaghetti noodles. This was not amusing. Or...? Huh. Dean sagged to the floor, flat on his ass and sat there, giggling like a little girl. Fuck, was that his edge of hysteria? Maybe he should just crash for the night right here. A jaw-cracking yawn overtook him. 

* * *

"Come on, let me give you a hand." Dean didn't struggle when Charlie helped him up and held him firmly by his left arm. "Lean on me, it isn't far."

They made their way to Ellen and his bedroom, where Charlie led Dean to the bed. "Do you need the bathroom? I'll wait here."

* * *

Somehow he was on his feet again, being marched... somewhere. The impression of being treated like a small child only increased when Charlie asked Dean if he needed to use the bathroom before he slept. As humiliating as that was, the prospept of pissing _Ellen's_ bed was a thousand times worse. 

"Yes." Dean's tone betrayed his discomfort. At least his legs seemed to be working again. He stumbled in to the head and took care of his business, then let himself be led to... omgbednowsotiiiirrrredyesssss. Dean fell into the softness of the mattress and whatever else they did to him, he was too gone to remember. 

* * *

Charlie winced in sympathy when Dean stumbled from the bathroom to the bed. He knew this kind of exhaustion from 48-hours shifts back during his residency – and he hadn't had to deal with the emotional burden Dean was carrying on his shoulders.

"It's okay," he said as he helped Dean with the sheets. Ellen liked to tuck them in really tight and she wouldn't let herself be talked into buying a comforter. "Sleep now."

He wasn't sure if his patient had even heard him. Hopefully, Dean would have a good night – and hopefully, Sam would, too. Well, Sam was his and Ellen's responsibility now. Entering the guest room, Charlie smiled at Ellen, then took a seat next to her on the second bed in the room and prepared for their vigil.


	8. Chapter 8

Ellen carefully pushed the door to her bedroom open. Both Charlie and Dean were still out cold. Her plan was to wake Dean up, then take his place in her bed, but as tired as she was after the long night, she suddenly wondered if she shouldn't let Dean sleep for another hour. The boy needed nothing as much as to rest. Then again, maybe he needed something more: the knowledge that his brother was getting better and that Sam was asking for him.

She set the cup of black coffee she'd brought for Dean on the night stand. Dean's face looked relaxed, and she hoped she could keep that expression on his face when she gave him the news. The swelling around his bad eye seemed a little less pronounced than it had in the evening, but even Dean's other eye had a dark circle underneath. Ellen was sure that his exhaustion ran deeper than what a single night of good sleep could cure. Well, that was something which stood a chance of being remedied: Sam would need to be cared for for another week or so, and meanwhile she intended to make sure that Dean rested, too.

"Dean," she whispered, as softly as she could so as not to wake Charlie. Her partner had been up all night, watching Sam, bathing him in ice water when the fever had spiked, trying to calm him when he was hallucinating. She'd been there for a time, too, before Charlie had sent her to bed. Now it was his turn to sleep and she'd join him soon. Jo was looking after Sam, and Dean would want to take over.

Hunters usually slept light, but Dean didn't stir. Maybe that was because he knew he was safe at the Roadhouse, but he hadn't slept properly in a while, so it might just be sheer exhaustion. Again, she felt sorry for him, but the boy had a temper and he wouldn't thank her for letting him rest when Sam was awake and asking for him.

"Dean," she hissed a little louder. If there was still no reaction, she'd consider shaking his shoulder, but it would probably earn her a punch in the face. "Dean, wake up. Sam is asking for you."

* * *

It was dark. And warm. And virtually pain-free. Something was calling his name though, pulling him up out of the comfort of sleep and safety. The voice was so soft, he tried to ignore it, but it came again, insistent.

Then it started. Flashes, in painful clarity. Night: salt-and-burn, fighting, running, Sam shot... bleeding... being sick... Dean on top of them, oh god, cum and blood. Morning: both of them stumbling, trying to help each other... driving... Sammy in the bath... both of them against the wall... in the bed... Daylight: harsh and bitter, Sam struggling and hallucinating... Dean in the back of the Impala with him, wet remnant of his torn shirt wiping down... Sam crying, screaming at him, love and hate and...

"Dean!"

His eyes opened wide. Dean gasped for air, not knowing where the fuck he was. He pulled a punch just in time when he saw that it was Ellen trying to wake him. Right. They were at the Roadhouse. Another rapid-fire sequence of memories showed him the events since they'd arrived.

"Okay, I'm up." Grimacing, Dean pushed himself upright, wobbled for a second, and then nodded at Ellen. If Sam was asking for him, then he had better find out what state of mind his brother was in today, not to mention his physical health. The fear that had set in yesterday when Charlie had said Sam could lose the arm had prompted Dean to get himself drunk and fucked – literally – and he would have to face Sam's anger for that. He needed a shower and a change of clothes and a toothbrush – badly. But he supposed it would have to wait. All that mattered, first, before anything, was that he see Sam, see him alive, awake and healing. 

Dean rubbed a hand over his bristly face, and picked the sand from the corners of his eyes. Was it even 'today' yet, or still night? He couldn't tell. "Where is he?"

* * *

Ellen held out the coffee mug to Dean. "He's in one of the guest rooms. Still feverish but alert. Jo is with him, and he's asking for you. I've laid out some clothes for you and you can have a shower, there's a bathroom adjacent to where the two of you are going to spend the next week." She gave him a stern look. "Sam's injury is serious and he'll need time to heal."

* * *

Taking the coffee mug, Dean nodded his thanks. Half of what Ellen was telling him flew straight by, but he did get the message that he could clean up and they even had fresh clothes for him, and he was more than grateful. "Thank you," he murmured. The coffee was strong and hot, and he couldn't wait for the buzz to hit.

Jo watching Sam gave Dean no end of apprehension. Forget that he had no reason or excuse, because everyone pitched in to get the work done, he just had a weird feeling. The young woman had zoned in on him, Dean, within ten minutes of meeting him, never giving Sam a second glance. Her spending time with him now, it just didn't settle. Well, he'd have to deal. 

Dean spent as little time as possible in the bathroom. Within six minutes – internal stopwatch – he was showered, dressed, and ready. There were more rooms and hallways behind the bar than he'd featured. From the outside, the place was deceiving. 

Outside the door to their – what really? their? – room, Dean gathered himself. This was probably not going to be pretty, but be damned if he was going to apologize for any of his actions. He'd already done enough of that, for all the good it had done him. No, he'd fucked up again and again, that was true, but they both had made it out alive and if Sam chose to hate him, that was his problem. Dean had buried his love for nearly a decade and he could do it again.

He stepped through the door, and dropped into the chair next to the bed Sam was tucked in to. Not making eye contact, he nodded in Jo's direction. "Thanks for sitting with him."

As soon as she'd left the room he turned to Sam. "Made it through, I see. Good. They tell me you'll be good in a week." 

* * *

It was all a jumbled mess in his head. Getting shot. Sex with Dean. Vampire Dean sucking on his arm. Hunter Dean trying to kill possessed Sam. More incredible sex with Dean. Sam telling Dean he loved him. Sam telling Dean he hated him. A harsh, bright light, and Ellen promising that he'd be better. Dean reeking of sex with another guy. Sam crying for his brother, sure he was going to die. Ellen trying to drown him in a tub full of ice.

Sam had woken up with the mother of all headaches and a deep, gnawing pain in his arm. Ellen had given him a few pills that had tuned the pain down to a bearable level, but he still felt flushed and shaky, his skin drenched in sweat and goose-pimpled at the same time. For some reason he was convinced he should be mad at Dean, but he couldn't quite piece together why.

"Yeah," he repeated. "They said a week or so. If everything goes well."

Sam wanted to reach for Dean's hand, but there seemed to be a wall between them.

"You okay?" he asked, almost shyly.

* * *

"Yeah, you know me." What was there to say? Maybe he should take it easy on Sam for a day, till he could defend himself. What Dean wanted to know was Sam's excuse for the uppers, but right now, all he could do was stare at his brother across whatever vast distance had grown between them and thank whoever was out there that he lived. Sam's eyes were dark with pain, the slant calling out like a siren song; his hair was a mess, his nose was red, his skin, sleep-crumpled, his lips, thinned and pressed together when he wasn't speaking. 

He was the most captivating sight Dean had ever laid his eyes on. 

Too late, Dean cast his eyes away and laughed weakly. "Been better, but had a lot worse." 

* * *

Sam tried to look anywhere but at his brother, but he couldn't avoid stealing worried glances at him. For a brief moment, their eyes made contact, then Dean found an interesting spot on Sam's blanket.

_'Do I know you?'_ Sam wanted to ask. His brother was behaving like a stranger but Sam couldn't grasp what had led to this. Only one way to find out. Not that there actually was a realistic chance, but if he didn't ask, Dean wouldn't even have to refuse talking.

"Dean," Sam said and gathered his courage to raise his face up to his brother's. "I remember being shot and I know that you brought me here and saved my life. Everything in between is pretty hazy, though. Some of what I seem to recall must have been hallucinations, like you turning into a vamp, but I'm having a hard time here figuring out what was real and what wasn't."

He hesitated, then continued, "Please tell me what happened during the past day and a half."

* * *

That... that... Would be some doing. Dean remained silent, staring at the covers, while he fought with his guts. Some of what was in a true telling could very well make him want to be sick. As close as he'd ever been to Sam, he also didn't know if he had the courage to tell him those things. It could only make his brother hate him more, or see him as pathetic, and Dean didn't know which was worse. But if he didn't remember, or thought he had hallucinated a lot of it... 

"Well, I wasn't a vamp," he chickened out. "Nor any other creature." Maybe if he just gave the PG-rated version, that would suffice. "So, yeah. We burned some bones, and had just finished when the local cops showed up. They busted up my face and cracked a couple ribs. We jumped the fence and ran, and they shot you on the way out. We got about a hundred miles down the road, and stopped in some dive for the night because you were bleeding like a stuck pig. I had to dig the bullet out, that was a real clusterfuck." Jesus H., Freudian slip already. Dean's ears tingled. "Remember that much?" 

* * *

Sam couldn't suppress a shudder. Oh yes, that was something he did remember. "Yeah, unfortunately." He shuddered again. "You were sitting on me to keep me from moving and in the end I think I puked, didn't I? Sorry for that..."

Squinting his eyes – as if that would jog his memory, he snorted to himself – Sam tried to think what else he remembered from the 'surgery'. 

"After that, you kept me warm...?" His voice trailed off. Dean spooning him was something he wished was not a dream but real. "And I guess I never even thanked you for it, right?" Sam frowned.

* * *

"Dude!" Dean rolled his eyes. "You said 'thank you' so many times I had to tell you not to. It's true, I had to sit on you, to keep you still. I forgive you – you were..." He shook his head, remembering. "Afraid? Out of your head with pain, I guess. Anyway, yeah, you did puke. You were in shock. Blood loss and all. So yeah. We were in the same bed – I wasn't about to sleep in that mess. Nothing that hasn't happened before."

Dean shrugged in a way he hoped was casual, despite the fact that he knew he was pink and sweating after that last one. "And like I said – shocky. You were sweating bullets and still freezing, so I kept you warm. Just like Dad taught us." There. A mention of their father in the middle of _that_ would be like a bucket of icy water. 

* * *

There was a weird expression showing on Dean's face. Was his brother actually blushing? Sam wondered what might cause that. Then again, a large part of Dean's face was discolored and Sam wasn't sure he trusted his own vision, what with the drugs Ellen's man Charlie had given him, and everything else.

"I remember you stitching me up, but that was in another place, right? Because I also remember us sleeping before that..." Sam frowned. "Sharing a bed again, but it was not the same as before."

He also remembered being naked, with Dean's tongue in him and... Of course, this part must have been a dream, but it had seemed so real! He felt a heat wave racing to his groin and gasped, then ducked his head, hoping his brother would mistake the sound for an expression of pain – and immediately felt guilty for it: for both, desiring Dean and hoping that Dean would assume he was suffering... 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. How could he be such a mess!

* * *

About to correct Sam about the timing and places of the events, Dean stopped short when Sam gasped and closed his eyes tight. If he was recalling those unsaid things... But, no, so much better if he didn't.

"Sam, are you alright?" Dean leaned in as color crept up his face. Out of habit, if only of the last two days, he rested a hand on Sam's chest. The heat of his brother's body burned into his palm. But he didn't snatch it back, for that would only make it more obvious that something was off. 

* * *

His brother's hand on his chest... Sam gulped for a breath, sure that he was about to faint. It felt... so... right...

"Dean!" Sam's voice quivered. "Please, I need to know. Yesterday... Did we... Did we do anything we don't... normally... do?"

His heart was racing madly as he waited for a reaction.

* * *

"Uh..." Dean looked anywhere around the dim room but at Sam, his heart beginning to race. "I'd say it's been two days of insanity. So, yeah, probably. You don't usually get hurt on hunts. It's been... Look, I've had to take care of you like a child – dressing you, bathing you, making you drink," he rushed on, so that Sam could make no mistake, "Not that I mind, because I will always watch out for you." 

Fuck it. Dean was going to burst an artery if he didn't say something. He just hope Sam would take it at face value and move on. "Things got. I don't know how to say this. Adult. Like... Like... When we were teenagers. Okay?" Oh, it was far from okay. "I'm sorry."

* * *

"I'm not!" Sam blurted out. "Sorry, that is. Unless..." Suddenly, another memory hit him, and it wasn't a nice one. 

_'...like that's not rape-y...'_

Sam couldn't remember the context, but Dean accusing him of doing something Dean didn't want slammed Sam in the stomach like a fist. He swallowed hard. _Dean was sorry because Sam had forced him to have sex with his brother._ And then... the last thing he recalled from last night... Dean reeking of sex – sex with another man, where he'd refused Sam... or had the earlier refusal been a dream?

Shit, shit, shit. Why had he asked Dean for the truth? Sam pushed Dean's hand off his chest and closed his eyes. "We shouldn't have done that." His voice sounded as cold as he felt. _"I_ shouldn't have done that."

* * *

Sam's brush-off stung like a motherfucker, but Dean had pretty much known it was coming. He shouldn't have touched Sam. "Fine. No problem. And here's something else you shouldn't have done: Uppers. Charlie and Ellen found your little stash. What the hell? Are you stupid?" Dean lashed out. He leaned back and fixed his glare at his brother. Forget letting him off the hook. They were going to talk about it _now._

* * *

"Wha-?" Sam's eyes snapped wide open. When they met with his brother's glare, he immediately lowered them and folded his arms across his chest, wincing when the move pulled at his injured arm.

"That's none of your business," he said curtly. 

* * *

"Like hell, it's none of my business!" Dean lowered his brows and raised his voice. "We've been hunting together and you've been taking this shit for how long? Huh? Were you _trying_ to get yourself – or me – killed? And no wonder you haven't been sleeping. Oh, yeah, 'coffee and research,' he said. Lies! What else have you been lying about, Sam? Do you know your body was so worn down you nearly lost your arm? If that Charlie hadn't been here, you would have! Is that what you want for yourself?" It was turning into a full-on rant. Dean's adrenaline pumped through him, and he clenched his fists. 

* * *

"Was I trying to get _you_ killed? The fuck I was!" Sam's sore throat hurt as he spat out the words. "I haven't been sleeping, so what? Neither have you. As for an unhealthy lifestyle, look at yourself, man. With the amount of booze you put away, you really shouldn't be lecturing me! And I haven't been lying to you."

Sam knew that he shouldn't have resorted to the drugs, but how could he tell Dean that he'd only taken them because he couldn't let himself fall asleep in the same bed as Dean, whom he wanted so much that it almost killed him.

Breathing harshly from the red-hot rage building up inside him, Sam went on, "And why the fuck would you care anyway? You don't want me, remember?"

* * *

"I'll lecture you as much as... However much you need it. What I do or don't do has nothing to do with it. Those things are dangerous, can't you learn from my past mistakes?" 

Dean blinked at that last bit. It was just... outrageous. Sam was openly ridiculing him now, something he'd never done that wasn't in fun. He had to get farther away. Dean pushed himself up and crossed the room. "What the fuck was that? 'I don't want you'. You're the lying sack of shit that's making up rape stories as an excuse to... What exactly? I already told you I was sorry! Fine, you want your sex and your love in the same basket every time! I'm sorry I'm not enough for you. Not _good_ enough for you! Would I have... Let myself, let _us_ start up again last night, no I mean night before, if there was any other way? I knew you'd freak, but I didn't know what else to do and... Oh my god, Sammy it felt so fucking good I-" Dean could feel the heat in his eyes, made worse by blood siphoning into his dick and god. That was the last thing he needed right now! 

Dean stalked to the chair and pulled it back several paces, slamming it down and plunking his ass onto the seat. "Go on then, you little fucker. Tell me to my face that me being in love with you for... for years now! – means nothing, and I swear, I will walk away as soon as you're healed. Tell me that the way we touch each other is just physical, nothing more. Oh yeah, 'cause I lick everyone's asshole and tell them I love them, you bet. Tell me, Sam, and you'll never see me again. Not up close anyway. Not alive." 

Dean cursed himself. What a fucking girl. The verbal diarrhea just spewed forth and there was plenty more, for that matter. He could feel tears and snot on his face and picked the hem of his shirt to wipe it away. Fuck it, if Sam noticed he was half-hard. Fuck him.

* * *

What the hell was Dean talking about, that Sam should learn from Dean's past mistakes? _What_ mistakes? And that Sam was making up rape allegations? Of course, the sex had been... the best he'd ever had, but he'd told Dean he needed more, he needed love with it. Didn't his brother get it that Sam had only been able to let this incredible closeness happen because he loved Dean? And he'd told Dean – only to be told that, 'of course we love each other, we're brothers.'

Sam's head was spinning. And yet, could Dean really mean what he'd just... no, not said directly, but more than just implied...

He saw red. "You love me? Sure you do! That's why you go fuck the next best stranger – after refusing me – while some guy you've never seen before is slicing me open!"

All energy drained from Sam. He felt empty and sick. "I... Dean... I can't do this."

* * *

Sam wasn't hearing a goddamned word he was saying. And what he did hear, he twisted. Dean felt like he was going to hurl again, but he wasn't going to give his idiot brother the satisfaction. He did catch the confused look, when he kept at Sam about the amphetamines, though.

"You don't remember when I was a strung out mess for like, a year, huh? Starting when you were fifteen and I was nineteen? Ring any bells?" Probably not. After all, Dean had tried to hide it, too. More on that later. Maybe. Sam was yelling again. 

There was really no excuse for what Dean had done with Ash. Moreover, Sam apparently saw it as some form of cheating where as Dean graciously had accepted the nerd's offer, or maybe that was the other way around, to their mutual benefit. 

"For the record, Sam," Dean made his voice cutting, "it wasn't like that. Charlie wouldn't treat you till I left the room. I had to make a deal with Ellen just for that – Charlie's her man now – and part of the terms was," he did his best to imitate Ellen's drawl, "'behave like an adult.' I... I couldn't be in there. Didn't want him touching you. First time you made a noise, I had a knife at his throat. And... it wasn't the next best stranger. It was Ash." Crap! Dean had planned to keep that to himself. Sam was twice as big as the other man and Dean didn't want to be responsible for any threats or worse between the two. "What was I supposed to do, Sam? Take you dry, a virgin, not knowing what the fuck to do with a man? I told you, I refuse to hurt you."

He _had_ hurt Sam, though, by his words and actions. Knowing that was like salt in an open wound. "You can't do this? Can't do what? You're going to trash it all – _again!?"_ Dean was panting heavily, like he was about to hyperventilate, the opposite of Sam's cold, still demeanor. "Well, if that's how you want it." He would see Sam well, work on Charlie's car and then, who knew? Dean's shoulders slumped low, and he leaned far forward, elbow on his wide-spread knees and face in his hands. 

* * *

"Dean, wait. _Wait."_ The spinning in his head increased. Sam knew he was going to be sick in a minute and he didn't want his brother to see it.

"What do you mean, I'm going to trash it all _again?_ Honest to god, I don't know what you're talking about." 

He was so tired of the fight, tired of the pain and everything. All Sam wanted was Dean's love, and it appeared that now that he might have had a chance at that, they'd blown it forever.

"Dean, please..." Tears forming in his eyes, Sam wasn't sure what he was begging for, but he _needed_ so badly...

* * *

"What?" Dean gritted out between clenched teeth. 

"Right. You don't remember, do you? You said... We swore this stupid pledge. Not to die, to stay alive. We swore on our lives. ...and then..." he kept his face pointed to the floor, "you said, you wanted it to be over. That something would take us out, end it all. You said... you love me, but you hate me. Okay, fine, you were hallucinating, whatever. But when you were lucid, before that, at the second motel..." Dean swallowed hard. "In the bathroom. Don't you remember a goddamned thing?" 

He shouldn't be angry. But he was. It had been so hard to say, at the time, telling Sam how he loved him... As his lover. More or less. Dean didn't think he could muster up the words now, not again. Not if Sam just wanted out.

* * *

"Dean... I remember... and I don't..." Sam blinked hard. "I'm not sure what's real and what..."

Taking a deep breath, he looked at his brother. Dean was furious and avoiding his eyes. Sam couldn't blame him for that, but maybe this was their last chance... together... He had to make it right!

Sam let all his defenses down. "I love you. And if you leave me, I'll die."

* * *

"But..." Dean's mouth couldn't get any more than that out. He would die? Up until last night when he had found out about the benzies, Dean would have said that no, Sam would not die because he was too strong. There was still strength, even in his weakened state – that was just who his brother was.

And Sam was, could be, in a word, detached. Dean compartmentalized. Sam didn't have to. He could accept every facet of his life and still remain calm, processing things as he had the time. No white-hot bursts of emotion that provoked him to rash actions but left him drained. Other than the last two days, and he had _not_ been himself.

Finally, Dean's mouth got around to forming some words. "I am not leaving you. Never." It seemed insufficient once again, though he meant to reassure. Dean could feel Sam's eyes burning into him. Every time he ran his mouth, Sam had misunderstood. If anyone walked away, it would be Sam, that much he knew.

He raised his eyes. Just the look on Sam's face was going to kill him. Dean gasped, again, a multi-layered thing that stuttered in his lungs. The softness of love and desire, that thing that Sam would not, should not allow himself to feel for his _brother_ , it was all there. No one could be that calculating, to wear that kind of expression over the opposite feeling. But... Christ, he had to be hallucinating now. His chest swelled till he couldn't even breathe.

"I love you. Only. You." In the oncoming rush, Dean could only push out one word at a time. Slowly, he rose to his feet again, and took one step forward. God help him, if this was a joke or if Sam changed his mind again, he was never going to come out from behind whatever wall he had to built to keep himself sane. Another step. "Sammy." Another. Dean went to his knees at the side of the bed.

"Sam... please..." Dean's voice was hoarse. He didn't even know what he was asking for. 'Help me'? 'Love me'? 'Be with me'? Not that he was in any state. Sam's hands lay limply by his sides. And he still had two, with those long, expressive fingers, the thumbs that curled in a backward arch. They were committed to Dean's memory, along with every other part of his body. Dean's eyes darted between Sam's nearest hand and his face. No sneer, only a half-smile and slightly parted lips, fox-eyes focused a little warily on Dean's approach. Another erratic breath. Dean reached across the covers, and across whatever was between them, a million miles wide. 

* * *

Sam held his breath while he waited for Dean to shake his head, dismiss him, leave him forever. It didn't happen. Instead, he watched a long series of expressions run over Dean's face. He could literally see his brother think. It was all there: confusion, surprise, doubt, insecurity, fear, disbelief, terror, need. And most of all: love. 

_"I am not leaving you. Never."_

Sam breathed again, but he still couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then, Dean met his eyes and gasped. For the first time in his life, Sam began to think that maybe, _maybe,_ he had not done the wrong thing by admitting his feelings to his brother. His eyes widened when Dean opened his mouth again.

_"I love you. Only. You."_ And then, his brother went on his knees beside the bed. _"Sam... please..."_

"De–" Sam's voice failed him. He coughed and tried again. "Dean." He extended a trembling hand. "Please... Come..." Shuffling around, Sam managed to sit up. His arm protested against the move, but he couldn't have cared less. "Here. With me." He slid to the far side of the narrow bed, making space for his brother to join him. "Please. I need to feel you. Need to know that you're really here, with me."

* * *

"I am..." Voice shaking, Dean answered, "I'm real. Need you, too." Sam moved over on the narrow bed, his invitation in his extended hand and in the angular lines of his face. 

Dean rose to his feet, and reached over to lock the door. Gingerly, he lifted the edge of the blanket, checking Sam's face with every move. Dumping his boots on the floor, Dean slid under the covers, reaching for his brother. And he was there, they touched from shoulders to knees. A thrill of heat and love enveloped Dean as he pulled his brother close to him. Sam was so warm, not feverish, but his own always-running-hot temperature. Immediately, Dean lay his head on the same pillow, lay on his side, and wrapped his arms around Sam's torso – one over, one under. He could wait for the rest, if Sam wasn't ready. 

Dean's body was tense, almost vibrating, from too much stress and emotion. He was still breathing in little gasps. Everything in him wanted... wanted, so bad, so hard... Burying his face in Sam's neck, Dean breathed in deeply, the unique scent of him. "Sammy..." Intending to let his body deal with Sam's time frame, Dean discovered he couldn't _not_ touch him, not while they were here, safe, together. His fingers found their way under Sam's tee-shirt, skimming across the bare skin of his stomach. "Love this body. And..." So there would be no mistake, Dean focused on the spitfire irises of the half-lidded hazel eyes, "you. Been in love with you since... since we were kids. You know. Too stupid to admit it."

* * *

"Dean..." It was all Sam could utter. His brother was here with him, and it was not a dream. This time, Dean was real. After all the years he'd told himself that he'd never hear those words from the only person he wanted them to say, Dean had said them. Dean loved Sam.

Dean's only reply was a hoarse, "Sammy." Sam felt his brother, with him under the blanket now, wrapping his arms around Sam. It was gentle, not wanting to hurt, but also insecure, as if Sam wasn't the only one who still couldn't believe what they'd just admitted to each other. And then Dean said it again. That he'd been in love since they were kids.

"I..." Sam struggled with words. His usual eloquence had disappeared into nowhere. There were hundreds of thoughts in his mind, hundreds of things he needed to tell his brother _now_ , but not a single one of them would make it to his tongue.

How he'd hated it when Dad had taken Dean along, hunting. How Sam couldn't sleep, missing his brother as if someone had cut a part out of him and always fearing that one day Dean might not come back.

How, eventually, Sam had left the family because he couldn't bear the fear of losing Dean: if Sam was the one who left, Dean couldn't leave him, right? How wrong he'd been!

How, as much and as deeply he'd loved Jess, his love for her would never match the love he felt for his brother. If not for that, if he hadn't gone with Dean that one time, Jess would – might – still be alive. Sam would always feel guilty for her death, but a small, dark part of him felt that it had freed him to be there for Dean...

Many more thoughts came crashing down on him, almost drowning him, but all Sam could see was Dean's face, his eyes, holding a promise to keep him anchored, safe.

One of his brother's hands was on Sam's back, holding him, grounding him. The other was under his shirt, caressing his chest. Sam wanted, needed to feel Dean's firm muscle under his fingers, but he also needed his good arm to pull Dean closer, and the left one hurt too much. For now, Sam smiled and enjoyed Dean's fingers on him. He had a whole life time ahead for feeling his brother.

Dean spoke again. _"Been in love with you since... since we were kids. You know. Too stupid to admit it."_

Yes, Sam knew. Too stupid, a synonym for too scared of losing everything. If not for Sam being shot, maybe they'd never found out about each other! It was too much. He felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up from deep inside him.

"Dean," Sam gasped. "If only... I should have caught this bullet years ago." He felt Dean's breath on his face, inhaled his scent. "I love you so fucking much!"

* * *

_I love you so fucking much!_

"Oh god, I know..." Dean confirmed, hugging Sam tighter to him. He bent his leg and threw his thigh over Sam's, hips flexing once, twice, before he stopped himself from full-on humping. Instead, he trailed his fingers up the middle of Sam's firm abdominal muscles and played with the little soft hairs on the wide, chiseled chest. He didn't even have to pretend everything was an accident any more. The freedom was exhilarating. Deliberately, Dean flicked at Sam's nipple, pinching with the side of his fingernail just lightly when it stood up, peaked. He wished their clothes would disappear, so that they could be naked, raw, against each other.

"When we... stopped... I wanted to die. And when you went to Cali. But I always wanted, more than anything, for you to be happy. You're a great hunter, and that's our life now. But you had to know, right?"

Licking his own lips first, Dean shifted upwards enough to slant his lips over Sam's. It was a short, sweet kiss, ending with a soft smack. The next – anything but sweet. Dean wanted to crawl inside of Sam and live, invade his mouth, lick every surface. His tongue unfurled and sought Sam's, agile and slick. "Always wanted you. It killed me to say nothing and not touch you." Right or wrong, Dean went with his gut; right now it was yelling at him to get every single surface of them together possible. Reaching back behind his neck, Dean grabbed on to the collar of his shirts and pulled both over his head in one motion, and tossed the tangle to the floor.

Sam checked out his chest, love and heat and familiarity in his eyes. "I wanna... Can I unbutton your shirt, Sam?" It was so unlike him, Dean, to ask rather than just do what he wanted. Consideration for Sam's injury, he decided. He didn't care what it was, just needed the skin contact.

* * *

"Yes, yes," Sam whispered urgently. He needed his shirt off _now_ so that he could feel his brother's body against his, skin on skin. Already, he was on fire from the loving, exploring touches and the kisses. Dean's fingers and lips... Sam couldn't get enough of them, but he wanted to touch, too. 

When Dean reached out to undo his shirt buttons, Sam gasped. A flame licked down to his groin and he shivered. The heat and chill he felt now had nothing to do with the fever he knew he was still running. However, the fever was still there, and suddenly, Sam was afraid. 

"Dean," he groaned, incredibly aroused already. "I want you. All of you. Everywhere. Forever. I just don't know if I can... Right now, that is..." Sam winced. "Doc gave me something and I'm a little... dunno." 

Sam had never felt performance anxiety before, but he was afraid that if he didn't react the way Dean expected, his brother might see it as rejection. This, whatever it was, was so young, new, fragile. And hadn't the past days – the past years! – been a series of misunderstandings? 

"I love you," he said again. "Whatever happens, never forget that I love you."

* * *

"Sammy, I know you're not 100 percent right now. Those knock-out drugs..." he chuckled. Well, so he'd heard. He'd actually be surprised if they impaired Sam's ability; he'd cum like a motherfucker when he was shot and bleeding; he'd done it again in even worse shape after Dean had bathed him. Now there was an event that would forever go down in history in Dean's mind: the bath.

They were on the same page now. Dean reached between their chests to unbutton Sam's shirt, starting at the top. It seemed to take forever, his fingers too clumsy. When it was finally open, revealing the mostly-smooth skin below with its light sprinkling of hairs on the tight pecs and trailing downwards from Sam's navel, he pushed it back, so Sam could pull his arm from the sleeve. Careful of the injured and bandaged arm, Dean pulled the other sleeve free from under Sam's shoulder. Darting a look to Sam's face, he knew it was okay, and Dean kissed him again, one hand on each side of Sam's face. 

"We'll do what... what we can. Whatever you're comfortable with, okay? I'm a big boy... can handle it," Dean grinned. "If there's a problem, speak up. I mean it." He said the words, never needed between them before, but then as teenagers they were so horny and eager, and what they had done recently... that had been clandestine and there was no permission discussed, it was all on edge and desperate-need-based. "So if I do this, is it a problem?" Dean reached for his belt buckle. The thick leather tongue of it slid through, and he pulled it back to dislodge the pin. Behind his fly, Dean was throbbing hard, needed more room before his dick got toothmarks from the zipper.

* * *

"That's just it," Sam joined Dean's chuckle, relieved by his brother's reaction. "I'm not 100 per cent." He swallowed. "But neither are you, and I still can't wait to have all of that."

If asked, Sam would have said that Dean was the more impatient one of them, but now he couldn't wait to be out of his shirt. He was moved by the gentleness of Dean's fingers, slowly unbuttoning him and taking the garment off him with infinite care so as to not jostle Sam's injured arm. Just when Dean's tenderness was making Sam's eyes water for real, his brother broke the 'tension' by reminding Sam that Dean was a big boy, then asking him if 'this', unbuckling his belt, was a problem.

Sam laughed with pure joy. "Oh no problem at all, quite the opposite" he said, "you sure are a big boy. And even if I may not be able to follow, I'll never let you suffer from blue balls."

Dean loosened his belt and Sam rooted around so he could put his good hand on Dean's zipper. He could feel his brother's hardness, the throbbing of the vein on the underside of Dean's erection. The thought of running his tongue over it made him lick his lips. He pulled the zipper down slowly and placed his hand on the warm, pulsing organ. Dean, eager to be freed, lifted his butt and wiggled, then pushed his jeans down to his knees.

Sam slipped his hand into his brother's boxers, smiling as he collected a smear of pre-cum on his lower arm when his fingers sought out Dean's balls and gave them a light brush.

"Remember the night you told me what blue balls meant? When we were teens?" Sam's voice was a little dreamy. "I was so disappointed that you'd gone out without me and then you returned home and let me touch you for the first time..."

* * *

Between them, they got Dean's jeans out of the way, and Sam's hand was in his underwear, sliding the length of his dick to cupping his balls as if they were home, the closest thing they had to a home. "NNnnghfff...! Jesus, Sam." Dean attached himself to the side of Sam's neck, right where it met the shoulder, sucking a red mark and licking over it. Kicking all the way out of his jeans, he nudged a knee between Sam's. 

The reminder of the night Sam mentioned sent another flood of arousal through Dean. The teasing, tickling sensation of Sam's fingers rustled through the hairs and rumpled skin of his sac, and the glands inside quivered and tightened. "I remember that, yeah. And, I never told you, but I watched you before that. Got home early, you'd been looking at some skin mag." Sam said nothing; Dean needed him to know how excited he'd been by what he'd seen. "You... Uh!" He couldn't help it; Dean rubbed up against Sam's thigh – he was wearing sweatpants – the soft material wicking up his oozing, silvery pre-cum. 

His words followed the tightly controlled rhythm of his lower body. "You were jerking off... And you called my name... And, Sam... I think you know what else you were doing." He slipped his right hand under Sam's waistband, and up over the jutting hipbone. Like the rest of him, Sam's ass was hard muscle covered in velvet skin. "I barely made it to the bathroom, nearly came in my pants, after I watched you... Fuck yourself..." Bending his head, Dean licked again, this time reaching one rosy-brown nipple, which popped up; Sam hissed and Dean poked at the nub with his tongue. He swallowed hard, lapped a few times, and tightened his hold, squeezing Sam's buttcheek. "And yeah, when you touched me... It felt like something broke in me." He had to stop, before he lost it.

His eyes rolled back for a minute, lids fluttering, but he snapped them open again. Sam continued to play with him, and Dean tried to relax before he got himself too worked up. "Tell me what you want, Sam. Anything..." Dean wanted to rattle off a litany of all the dirty things he'd be more than willing to visit upon his brother's body. "Can I...?" Slowly, Dean moved his off hand toward Sam's crotch. He bit his lip. "Don't care what _state_ you're in, just wanna touch you!" 

* * *

A shudder ran through Sam's body when Dean sucked and licked at his neck. For a brief second he was reminded of his hallucination of Dean as a vampire the day before. His eyes went wide as he realized that even if his brother was turned into a fang, he'd immediately follow him over. Regardless what happened, they belonged together. How could they have taken so long to understand that they were one, that they could never be separated – that they couldn't live without each other!

_"And yeah, when you touched me... It felt like something broke in me."_ That was exactly what Sam felt now. A dam of repressed, denied, emotions broke in Sam, flooded him until there was nothing left but raw need.

Moving his hand out of the way when Dean pressed against his thigh, Sam felt that his brother was leaking, even through the sweat pants Ellen had given him. He moaned at Dean's words, how he'd watched Sam's younger self and almost hadn't made it to the bathroom. Then, Sam moaned louder as Dean's tongue found his nipple and he held on to Sam's butt, drawing him in.

Dean paused and Sam felt his brother shake, felt the effort it cost Dean to pull himself together until he offered Sam 'anything' he wanted, asking permission to touch his groin.

"Dean," Sam gasped, half out of his mind with desire. "I want everything. _Everything_ that we have, that we can give. Some will have to wait for later, but as of right now, I want out of my clothes. And then I want to – no, I _need_ to kiss you. And I need you to kiss me back, feel your tongue in me because I don't think I can have all of you in me with that arm in the way..."

* * *

Getting Sam's clothes out of the way sounded like a good idea. They were prone to sweating and leaking, and Dean didn't want to have to explain to their hosts if they should have to wash the borrowed clothing after less than half a day. He sat up, although he immediately missed the close contact, so that he could more easily work Sam's sweatpants down. 

Though he wasn't hard to more than what Dean referred to as 'half a chub', he didn't hesitate to run the pad of his thumb up the bulk of Sam's velvety shaft, which provoked a strong twitch. As soon as he'd eased the sweatpants down over Sam's sleek hips and long legs and off, Dean lay down again, on his side but so close to Sam their bodies were mostly flush again. He hissed at the slide of skin on skin, his own cock painting a blotch of slick on Sam's leg. 

Kissing was all Sam asked of him. Dean moved in eagerly to cover his mouth and lick over every surface inside. It was pure instinct, how anyone knew how to kiss – he knew to tilt and move his head almost to emulate sex and suck against Sam's pink lips, darting his tongue over the ridges on the inside of his palate. They both moaned into it, green eyes meeting hazel and locking. As he explored again all the textures and tastes of Sam's sweet mouth, so did Dean lay his hands on his body. It amazed him, how his baby brother had grown so huge and fierce, yet here, in the semi-dark, he would lie naked and hungry for Dean's touch. And that, he would give to Sam, too. 

Again, the hard slabs of Sam's pectorals fit the concave curvature of Dean's hands perfectly, nothing like a woman's chest at all. His shoulders were as wide as Dean's now and would probably broaden more yet through his twenties. On their sides, as they lay now, Sam's back went on forever. Dean ran his hand up and down it languidly, up then down again, tracing the arch at the base of his spine and the two dimples right above his ass. "Oh, Sam... You're so friggin' hot... Love your body... Love you!" 

Dean couldn't hold himself back from shoving his erection against Sam's belly. "You feel that? So hard for you!" He hitched his hips, needing friction. The hairs of Sam's happy trail scratched softly against the underside, soon wet with trickles of more of Dean's natural lubricant. 

* * *

"Dean, Dean..." Sam couldn't stop saying his brother's name. "So hard for me... Wanna feel you against me..." He rolled onto his back and shifted Dean on top. "Can you... your chest against mine? I don't want you to hurt..."

The expression on Dean's face was one of rapture, a slight frown as if he couldn't see what on earth Sam was talking about. "Your ribs," Sam explained. "We've got to be careful." Ignoring his own advice, he wrapped both arms around his brother's shoulders and pulled him closer, hissing when their skin touched.

"Rub against me," he invited Dean breathlessly, thrusting up to make his point. Sam wasn't fully erect, wasn't sure if he could cum, but there was no doubt that Dean could and would. 

"I need you," Sam repeated. Pushing his head up, he captured his brother's mouth with his, sucking at Dean's lips, almost biting him. His good hand slid from Dean's shoulder to his butt, gripping it tight and pressing their groins together. 

"Not sure I c'n... but later... your finger..." Sam was out of coherent words, but it didn't matter. Right now, it was Dean's need that counted. He wanted to feel his brother's juice slick his hip, his belly, wanted to feel Dean slowly lose it until he couldn't hold back any longer, until he'd cum moaning and crying against Sam.

"I love you so much!"

* * *

"Yesssss!" Dean rolled on top of Sam at his urging. Taking care to avoid Sam's injured arm, the rest spun into one twist of lust after another. His hard cock slotted against Sam's semi-erect dick between them. He thrust, his own slick easing the slide, again, again. God, he needed Sam's body as his anchor as he came apart and he lowered himself down willingly when Sam pulled at him. It was easy to ignore the concern about his ribs. Who the fuck cared? But then Sam suggested that Dean could finger his hole, and that was it.

With Sam's arm wrapped around him like a net, Dean couldn't extricate himself. 'Next time,' he promised himself. He looked into his brother's face, so keen upon his every reaction. Sam's pupils were dilated, and his irises kept jumping back and forth like he needed to see everything, right fucking now. That was how Dean felt too, but in his case, his climax was already starting to gather in his balls and he needed... 

"Uugh, yeah..." Dean shoved Sam's lean thighs wide. "There...!" His own legs spread involuntarily, which freaked him the hell out with one of Sam's dinner plate-sized hands on his butt, but whatever, it felt good, too. Now they pressed together closer, hotter. Dean moaned as their balls also brushed, then more. So tight now... "Feels good, Sam, m'balls are so full for you, gonna shoot it on you..." Just like Sam wanted. Just for Sammy. He groaned, letting the feeling flood his body.

It was hitting him, too fast really but he couldn't stop it. Finally, Dean gave in, wrapped his arms tight around Sam, took his mouth in a hard kiss, and gave over to his need to rut. He curled his hips down, arched his back, again and again, cock held tight between them. Everything he felt for Sam was behind that release, he needed to tell him, somehow. It hit, he was cumming, his seed escaping in an incredible outpouring of ticklish stickiness. "Mmmm-mm-rrrrraaww!" Knowing they were probably heard, Dean tried to keep it down, failed miserably, kept cumming till his body shook from how much he was giving, his toes curled in the sheets, and his eyes watered, drops running hotly onto Sam's cheekbones. "Love you Sammeeeee...!" His voice was weak and harsh, but when he pulled his head up and looked into his brother's slack-jawed face again, he only saw the same love reflected there, maybe more. 

Aftershocks upon him, Dean shifted downwards, to let the last of his cream dribble out into the seam below Sam's balls. He took one of Sam's knees in his hand and raised it up. "Your turn," he whispered. Sam's balls looked painfully full, and he was almost totally hard. Swiping his finger through the puddling spunk, Dean coated it well, and touched the hidden entrance, tapped it twice. He look up, asking wordless permission, grinning to himself as Sam's cock surged and spurted its first clear string.

* * *

Yes! Dean pressed against Sam, and Sam could feel the wetness of his brother's pre-cum on him. Then, Dean slid lower and nudged his thighs apart, not stopping in his rutting against him. Sam pressed back and pulled Dean's butt down, maximizing the skin contact between them. It was as if every surface of their bodies wanted to rub against each other, soak up each other's love.

He could feel that his brother was close. Dean was groaning and his body tensed. Sam felt their dicks sliding between them, Dean's hard and ready, and although Sam wasn't really hard, he was copiously leaking his arousal. Their balls touched, and they both moaned, with Dean announcing that his balls were so full, that he was gonna shoot it on Sam...

And then, Dean lost it. He kissed Sam hard and ground down against him as if there was no tomorrow. Within seconds, Dean was cumming, pulsing, shooting between them. Dean moaned, grunted, cried his love for Sam until he went limp on him for a brief moment. When Dean looked up and their eyes met, Sam saw the wetness and the love, and he knew deep in his heart that his brother felt so much more than just physical desire for him.

Sam swallowed. Dean hadn't even stopped twitching with the aftershocks of his climax as he trailed his hand through the mess on Sam's belly and further down, behind his balls, and...

"Nnnnuuughh!" Sam couldn't suppress an almost-shriek at the gentle touch on his hole. Why this turned him on so much, he couldn't tell, but he could barely breathe, the anticipation of Dean's finger inside him, stroking him deep down, making him dizzy.

"Next time," he gasped, "I want you to shoot it _in_ me..."

* * *

_Next time, I want you to shoot it in me..._

"Oh god!" Dean gasped. He had never really dared go there, not even when they had been nearing the point where Dean had cut it off for fear of doing exactly what Sam was asking for now, not even in the depths of night and drunkenness, missing Sam so desperately when he was at Stanford for those years. Would that he was 17 again now, and could get it up again in just a few minutes. "Sammy... I-I-I..." Dean had been about to say he'd never, but now he had, hadn't he? He felt his face burning. "We, if we're going to... gotta make it right for you." He couldn't string two thoughts together into words. Though it was impossible, his dick twitched pathetically with how much the idea turned him on all over again.

Of their own accord, Dean's fingers kept teasing the little puckered opening, smearing his spent cum around. It would get sticky eventually, but he'd deal with that when he had to. Glancing up at Sam's luminous, needy expression, how his stomach muscles tensed as he tried to watch, Dean wiggled one finger into the tightly-closed passage. Sam's body convulsed; he pulled his legs up on his own. "Like that, huh?" It was a redundant thing to say – Dean knew damn well how much Sam needed it, he only hoped he could do it justice, do it right.

There was something – Sam's prostate – that he needed to touch, to make him go crazy. Not sure what he was looking for, Dean concentrated on moving his finger in and out slowly, feeling around as he went deeper. Inside Sam was hot, hotter than he was on the outside. The outer ring muscle clamped tightly just above his knuckle when he went all the way in. There were other muscles, smooth and kind of rippling, inside. All of Dean's breaths were shudders now, imagining that around him, squeezing his dick as he...

Happenstance, the tip of Dean's finger brushed over something spongy and round, and Sam jerked hard, eyes rolling back and every muscle tensed. Dean looked at his brother's long, pulsing cock and saw the moisture running from the slit. "Sweet spot, Sammy," he said. "Want more?"

* * *

"God, Dean, I wish..." Sam gasped. "We... we'll make it right..." He gave himself over to Dean's hands. Sam couldn't think straight, his body and mind straining to be touched in this forbidden place. He remembered Dean's tongue, that it had been one of the most intense pleasures he'd felt in his whole life, but the memory was also hazy, clouded with pain and fever. Although he knew that he was still sick, his entire being seemed to consist only of the tiny, quivering entrance.

Sam thought his heart would stop when Dean finally slid the tip of his finger inside his needy body. His hole clenched, and his balls drew up. He raised his head, trying to catch a glimpse, but of course it was impossible. Sam's body began to shake as Dean slowly fucked him, going deeper and feeling around. Dean had slipped the tip of his finger inside Sam when they'd been teenagers but never more than that. Already back then, it had made Sam crazy with lust. Now, all he could do was press back and moan.

Then, all of a sudden, sparks flew up his spine and dick and down to his balls. Sam jerked and threw his head back, hissing as his dick spewed forth a string of fluid. It felt as if he was cumming, as if this was the first pulse, but instead of contracting and spilling their load in more gushes, his balls were waiting for something – another touch inside him – while the onrush of an incredible climax seemed to stretch out forever.

Sam couldn't breathe. His body was frozen with tension. He needed... "Dean, please, more," Sam whimpered. "Dean, p-please! Please touch it!" 

* * *

"Yeah, okay, Sam..." Dean agreed, his voice unsteady and rough. He wanted nothing more than to be the one to give Sam this, what he craved.

Dean had to pull out a second for more of something slippery. He swirled the combined mess of his semen and Sam's pre-cum again, making two fingers slick. Since Sam liked one, then maybe he could take two. The first slipped in more easily this time. As his knuckles touched down against Sam's perineum, Dean rotated his wrist, stroking the spot inside deliberately. The cry Sam let out, louder than ever, the way he arched and then bore down again against Dean's hand made his dick swell. It was too soon but it was hardening anyway. Sam tossed his head back and forth on the pillow, the long dark strands sweaty and tangled. 

"Gonna give you another," Dean warned. "Trust me." He didn't know if Sam had ever had more than one digit in him. The rim was still tight, and Dean tried wiggling in the first two fingertips at the same time, but to no avail. "Relax, Sam... If you can, or I can go back to one. But if you want me in you, you'll have to take more than this." Dean held up the two fingers where Sam could see them. He got a nod. Even if they went no farther today it would be a step in the right direction.

"Good... Let yourself open up, Sam." Never having been prepped himself, Dean didn't know where he pulled this from. But it seemed to work. He worked the borders of Sam's hole, pulling with the one finger just a little here, a little there, and he managed to hook the second in alongside. "So tight!" he rasped. Like before, he went in and out, a little deeper each time, Sam's body thrusting down at him. He's brother's face sheened with sweat, lips pulled back in a snarl and his nostrils flared wide. 

Dean twisted his wrist again and pressed the inner gland with his two strong fingers. He got an idea of the borders of the spot, the size of a walnut, spreading his digits around the sides of it. Sam was blowing out his breath, head dropped far back, the point of his Adam's apple exposed and vulnerable. So was all of Sam, at this point, naked with his legs pulled up, butt wiggling counterpoint to Dean's hand, viscous fluids all over his torso. Dean was having more and more trouble ignoring the tingling between his own legs. 

"You're beautiful, Sam... Should see yourself. Wanna make you feel so good." Oh, Sam already felt good, he could see and hear that. Those heavy balls were pulled up tight against his body. Dean leaned down, far down, and sucked the sac into his mouth, careful with the contents, the licked a wide strip up Sam's dick, root to tip, dipping his tongue tip into the slit. Inside, he touched Sam's prostate again, and his little brother keened to the roof. Dean knew he had to be close. He had to know now. "So fucking sweet," he groaned. Gods, he wanted... "Hands and mouth, Sam or.... Oh my god, please, will you let me fuck you?"

* * *

"Nnnhhh... Oh god!" Sam threw his head back again and cried out as Dean touched this incredible spot deep inside him. "Yes, Dean, please!" He was sweating and moaning, so close, just one more touch, oh please, Dean, yes, please, please...

_"Trust me."_

Oh yes, Sam wanted to say but his breath hitched. His body was writhing, desperate for more, but he was also scared as rarely before in his life. They were really going to do it! Sam had played with his own finger when he'd been a teenager, and Dean had caught up on the idea back then, but it had never been more than a single finger, and it had never been as deep in as today. And now Dean would...

He tensed at the sudden pressure against his hole, and Dean noticed it immediately. He stopped and showed Sam his fingers, and Sam could only swallow and nod. Gods, he wanted, needed, this so badly! He forced himself to relax, press back against Dean's fingers, and suddenly they were in. It hurt to be stretched, but it was a good hurt, a promise of more, a promise of love – that was mirrored in his brother's eyes.

Sam was wild with need and when Dean found _that_ spot inside him again, Sam cried out, helpless, his cock spurting long strings of drooly fluid that drove him mad with pleasure. All he knew was that Dean would take care of him, was there for him, and always would be – he'd promised!

Dean told him he was beautiful, and Sam wanted to tell him, that, no, he was wrong, that _Dean_ was beautiful, but his brain didn't work, and he couldn't get the words out. All he could manage was another – and yet another – deep groan whenever his brother's fingers grazed this incredible thing inside him until he was reduced to his desire, a whimpering something. Gods, he needed to...

Just when Sam thought he couldn't perceive anything more intense than what his brother was giving him, he felt Dean's tongue on him, swiping along his dick, painful with its hardness. Dean licked into his slit and stroked his insides again, and Sam reared up, beside himself. This was... He was...

Then Dean offered his hands and mouth... and... and...

_"Oh my god, please, will you let me fuck you?"_

It was too much. Sam tried to say, scream, 'yes', but he couldn't. The thought of Dean buried deeply inside him, making love to him, losing it inside of him while touching his secret pleasure spot was enough to send him, push him, kick him over the edge, and violently so. 

Sam cried out, his scream turning into a gurgle when his body claimed everything for down inside him, leaving nothing for his lungs and brain. He felt his nipples tighten painfully, than his sac contracted, as if it were trying to draw his glands into his body, and everything exploded in a white too bright to bear. He felt his dick heave endless amounts of cum until it was hurting, but even then, the spewing wouldn't stop.

"Dean," he whispered in tears, clutching feebly at his brother's – arm? shoulder? "Dean... P-please... Just hold me..."


	9. Chapter 9

Watching Sam lose it was almost enough to set Dean off, but not quite. By the time his body convulsed, then went still as stone, every muscle's lines standing out limned in lamplight on sweat, Sam was beyond his limit on coherence. Dean could see he wasn't going to be able to hold on for the act he suggested, and that was okay. It was nothing less than a gift that they got to do this at all. Maybe it would be the only time, Dean didn't know, and he wasn't going to screw it up being disappointed that they had not fully consummated this... Whatever-it-was.

Although they had been together in any sense only twice as adults, Dean had seen how Sam's body, like his own, came through for him in terms of leaking precious fluids when he was aroused – they were like sieves. When he blew his load, there was so much... So much. Dean had been licking the tip and slit when Sam began to cum helplessly, a short wail ripping from him. What could he do but help his brother through it and make it even more intense for him? With his fingers, Dean pressed his pleasure gland a little harder, rubbing at it. Sam's hole squeezed him hard, it _fluttered_ when he came! Damn, how would that feel when not his fingers but his cock was there?! He licked the little slit, even when strings of spunk burst over his tongue as he knew they would – he needed Sam's taste in his mouth, even that. 

After his balls had shot themselves dry and Dean withdrew his fingers, Sam just lay there, half-passed out and trembling. And he was... crying? – whispering urgently for Dean to hold him. "I've got you, Sammy," he whispered back. Forgetting his own needs, he crawled upwards and enfolded Sam in his arms, ignoring the sticky mess. "Hey, you're alright." Dean stared at his baby brother. Okay, not a baby, a grown man, a hot-as-hell grown man he loved so much it hurt; it tore at his heart so hard he nearly bawled, himself. "Sssh, it's alright. I'm here, I love you." 

Sam clung to him, eyes shut tight with tears still dripping, one at a time. Dean leaned in and kissed him, first on the mouth, then on the cheek, licking up the saltwater. For the moment, all the things they had fought about, still mostly unresolved, could just go fuck themselves. They'd work it out somehow, even 'talk'. Maybe. At least they were alive, and this – the love – was out on the table. Between them, anyway. It wasn't going to be easy to be around people, now that he carried the imagery of his brother, naked, cumming, crying out his love, everywhere with him. Wouldn't people look at them and _know_? Well, fuck them, too. 

The tears and neediness seemed to be winding down, but Dean made no move to separate them. He craved the closeness just as much, it was just something he'd never allowed himself, his derisive words on the subject always the way to cover the lack. Still hard, he pressed his erection into Sam's side. But that, that was just his body. He could take care of it later. 

* * *

"Dean... Dean..." Somehow the words made it out of Sam's mouth. He was shaking, flying apart, weeping, and Dean was there, holding him tight, grounding him.

The shivers seemed to go on forever. Sam feared that Dean would let go eventually, but Dean kept him wrapped tightly in his arms, rocking him gently, telling him it would be alright and that Dean loved him. 

Sam tried to nod, but even that was too much. Instead, more tears ran from his eyes, and Dean kissed them from his wet cheeks. His tired mind suggested that during the past two days he'd cried more than in years, even when Jess had been murdered. At any other day, Sam would have been embarrassed, but not now, not while he was safely cradled against his brother's chest. Dean's love kept him warm, and Sam didn't have to hide any longer.

"Dean," Sam whispered when he could find his voice again. He still felt altogether boneless, maybe a little stronger now, but Dean didn't move away. With effort, Sam raised his good hand and put it on Dean's chest. 

"Dean, that was..." There was no word in any language he knew that could come even anywhere near describing what Sam felt. Dean looked at his face, green eyes dark with emotion, and it made Sam smile. His brain suggested a word, and he giggled, light-headed, but sure that his brother would get the joke. "Dude, that was _awesome."_

He didn't miss Dean's erection stabbing against his side, and it made his pulse quicken. Sam wanted to give Dean the same gift he'd just received, but he knew he was out for the count right now.

"Dean," Sam said. "I want you. But I need a minute to recover. Stay here with me?"

* * *

Chuckling, Dean repeated, "Yeah, awesome. More than. You totally kill me, Sam." He was more intent on watching every reaction and emotion play out over his brother's features than anything else. "I won't leave, not going anywhere." With Sam so relaxed and unguarded, Dean didn't want to disrupt them being together like this, not for one second. While it was true they'd had their hands on each other several times recently, it had been so raw and needy, almost like hyper-aware, hyperactive versions of themselves. He could definitely go for more time, more touching that went on and on.

"I'm good," he wanted to assure Sam. "Pretend it's not there." Dean flicked his eyes down. "No pressure, okay?" He settled them more comfortably, drifting a little. If Sam needed to talk, he was there. They weren't awkward in silence either, and he was thrilled with that. As they lay, he ran his hand lazily over Sam's chest, and up to trace the tendons in his neck, then the familiar curve of his mouth. Combing the soft strands of his – lover's – hair between blunt fingers, Dean relaxed his own body little by little. 

He had said it before, he refused to hurt Sam. When he'd blurted that he wanted to fuck him, even if they'd made it that far he'd have made damn sure he'd done absolutely everything to ease the way. "You want me... I want you, too. Since you were way too young for that." It shouldn't be such a big deal, he'd been with how many people? But it was, because Sam had not. And, he'd never loved any of them like this, not Cassie, not anyone. "So another hour or day, or whatever, that's nothing." 

* * *

He was so tired, but in contrast to the bone-deep exhaustion of the previous days – weeks! – it was a pleasant sensation. Sam sighed happily against his brother's chest. Dean had settled them such that Sam's head was resting on Dean's shoulder and neither of their injuries would be aggravated.

"I won't pretend it isn't there," Sam said with a smile. "I _want_ it to be there. In another hour and in another day, and every day after that." His good hand was resting on Dean's hip now, and Sam could feel the heat from his brother's erection. He moved the hand down and let his fingers brush over the swollen flesh. "I'd love to give you my hand if you want that, too."

Looking up to Dean's face, he didn't touch the straining cock yet. "When you... we..." He shook his head a little, trying to come up with the right phrasing. "The first time you're inside me, I don't want it to be here. I want it in a place where we're alone. Or at least surrounded by strangers, not nice but worried friends who'll think it's my arm that's making me cry." Sam blushed. "I've noticed that I'm a little, uh, loud, but it's what you're doing to me."

Now that he'd said it, his arm had started throbbing again. It wasn't bad, but Sam knew that he'd want more pain medication eventually. He assumed that Charlie would know this, too. It was amazing that they hadn't been disturbed so far...

"Um, Dean, that door is locked, right?"

* * *

"Yeah, it's locked." And it was a good thing, too, because the slight brush of Sam's fingers over his erection was enough to make Dean hiss, and his hips jerk. So, Sam wanted more privacy for their first time fucking... making love. It followed, since their room was only borrowed but not paid for, per se. Between their hosts, there were two hunters – wanna be and former, a doctor, and a hillbilly genius, all of them more perceptive than most. Scary. They'd already have to play like everything was normal, other than their respective medical issues, and it wasn't going to be easy. But they'd done it before – they'd pulled the wool over their father's eyes for two years.

It was cute, the way Sam was half-embarrassed retrospectively about his noises. "You're kinda loud," Dean agreed. "And it's sexy." He tightened his arms and kissed Sam's forehead. "I make more sounds than usual, for me, too. Can't help it. If you want out of here first, then it's a week. Six days and counting, I guess. Time to stock up on lube," he leered. 

His dick lurched at Sam's offer. "Unless I'm going to walk around with a boner all day, I'd appreciate a hand," Dean smiled at the double meaning. Sam took the hint and wrapped his long fingers around the aching shaft immediately, as if he'd been waiting forever to do it. Cooler than his blood-filled cock, Sam's fingers were slightly cool and _that_ felt awesome, good, plus his brother had a hell of a grip.

If Dean had thought he could wait, he was wrong. He reached down, too, playing with his own balls while Sam's fist provided the friction he suddenly needed so bad with his good hand. A minute or two into it, Dean already was sure he'd blow in seconds, but Sam slowed down, making him wait. "Oh no! You're not going to torture me, are you?" That was only half in jest.

* * *

Dean's cock jumped right into Sam's hand; at least that was what it felt like. Sam smiled at the warm flutter in his belly. He was so deeply sated that he briefly wondered if he could _ever_ cum again, but with Dean's hand on him, in him... 

And now he had his hand on Dean. His brother was arching into the strokes even before Sam found a rhythm. Tightening his fist around the thick shaft, he wished he had two good hands when Dean reached down to fondle his balls. It was something Sam was already looking forward to, the feel of the heavy glands in the sac, tightening up when Dean was close. He'd never forget the first time he'd had his brother's testes in his hand, and it was only now that he realized how much he'd missed the silky feeling.

Sam could see Dean's need in his eyes. The pupils had all but swallowed the green irises. It was like looking into a deep pond of arousal, and Sam let himself be pulled toward it. All he wanted was to make this good for Dean, to pour all his love into the touch. It made him slow and soften his strokes, so he could have this for longer, but Dean spoke up, asking him to not torture him.

The desperation in his brother's voice shook him out of his dreamy spell. A look down to Dean's groin showed him an erection that was quivering in his hand, the tip almost purple with a steady trickle of clear fluid running from the slit. Sam squeezed around the steely flesh and was rewarded with another squirt and a deep groan.

He smiled as he picked up his pace, bending over Dean's face until their lips almost touched. "No torturing," he whispered. "Gonna make you feel so good..." Sam's lips latched on Dean's, sucking until his brother opened his mouth and Sam began to fuck him with his tongue. 

Dean wasn't thrusting into Sam's grip any longer; his body was quivering, arching, his hips lifted off the mattress. Dean even stopped breathing, and Sam knew that this was it. He broke the kiss so he could watch the face of his lover. Stroking and pulling as hard and as fast as he could, Sam felt the steel in his hand thicken as if it would explode, which he knew it would. Dean's eyes were wide open, as was his mouth, his eyebrows went up into this surprised frown that Sam had already loved so much when they'd been teens, the sign of Dean's imminent release.

He felt the cock in his hand begin to pulse and Dean's eyes rolled back in his head. Sam laughed with joy, letting himself fall into this brief moment before the floodgates opened.

* * *

Maybe because he'd already cum that morning, for a moment, Dean didn't know if he could again. Which was crazy, because when he asked, Sam sped up his motions, jerking him fast and hard. But if he couldn't, he'd have the worst case of blue balls ever, and probably destroy Sam's newly-found confidence. Neither were things he wanted.

Dean felt like he was lying in a puddle of his own sweat, and his body was out of control. Like touches themselves, he felt his brother's eyes on his body and he writhed, butting his head into Sam's shoulder, tossing it back, belly tense, hips and ass working to pound the rhythm of his heat toward the final outpouring. Sam's kiss ratcheted things up. Already hard as stone, his balls imploded in on themselves. Still, they did not let go, and Dean nearly screamed of the painful pleasure of it.

Sam laughed, out of nowhere. Not at him. A childlike laugh of pure delight and wonder. And Sam so rarely laughed, much less like that. So, okay, there was no pure in this, only yes there was, because everything good and right and so goddamn perfect boiled down to the thing they were doing right now.

When it came, when _he_ came, it was like a stunning blow to the head. Dean tensed till he shook, and the red-hot sparks of his release turned to spasms and blasts of his seed. It never occurred to him before how primitive and rudimentary the act was, and yet it was one pinnacle of humanity. Time slowed down. Every thud of his heart was an hour from the next. He could feel every tiny whorl and line on Sam's fingers as they worked him up and down, up and down. Something inside him, a chemical, a line crossed, one drop over capacity in his balls, he didn't know, but whatever it was, Dean was dragged in incredible clarity past that point. Every cell that flew from him, from deep out of his stinging balls, through the ducts, all the way up his inner tube and through the floodgate of his slit seemed to have its moment of saying goodbye, then shotgunning on to whatever reach of skin they fell upon.

Time sped up again. Dean was done, gone, wrecked, his torso painted in white streaks of himself and Sam holding him through the aftermath. The coppery taste of blood was in his mouth; he'd bitten himself to stay quiet. The reek of semen was all around them. He felt... gritty. Used. And he liked it. "Sam...?" he groaned, seeking only his brother's reply, that he was still alright. "I'm so out of it." If they weren't even having sex yet, not entirely, and it was like this, how would they survive the full-on thing? Sluggish as hell, he reached up and took Sam's face between his hands, searching his eyes. When he noticed there were droplets of cum on the pointed chin, he had to smirk, and then he licked them off. Sam didn't fight about kissing him, even with what was on his tongue. "Love you," he finally whispered, feeling lame, because the words weren't near enough to express it. "You know that, right?"

* * *

Sam had been sure that Dean was on the edge, but it took a long time until his peak hit him. Maybe Sam's sense of time was skewed, but Dean's orgasm felt different from any he'd witnessed before. His brother was shaking through it and in the aftermath, not even capable of telling Sam when to slow his strokes as he kept shooting seemingly forever.

When it was over, Dean collapsed in Sam's arm, limp, wrecked, and heavy. Sam felt the strong heartbeat as it slowly came down, but the expression in his brother's eyes... Dean was there and at the same time, far away. 

Sam knew what it felt like. Unless he was totally wrong, he'd had a similar experience only a few minutes ago. "Yes, I'm here, Dean," he confirmed gently when Dean said his name. He wiped his sticky hand on the sheet, wondering briefly how to explain this to their hosts, and caressed his brother's face. Dean's right cheek and eye were still swollen and disfigured in a rainbow of colors, but it looked less painful than the day before.

"I'm here, with you, yours forever." Sam leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on the lips he loved so much, then opened his mouth to taste Dean, and Dean's cum that he'd just licked off Sam's chin.

"I know that you love me," he said, his eyes burning into his brother's. "I know it and I feel it with every fiber of my body. Gods, Dean, how could I be so blind and not admit it before? You're the only one I'll ever love. Ever."

* * *

These were words that Dean had never expected to hear from anyone in his life, much less for real. Sam was sincere, so utterly sincere. He pulled in another shuddering breath and let it out. "Sam..." he choked. "You know this is against everything we were ever taught: Don't let yourself love, don't care too much because it will make you vulnerable, hunters can't get involved in relationships. Dad's gone, but I can still hear all that. This is between us now. And you know what?" Dean slowly focused on his brother's face. It was happy, suffused with an overload of feeling. "We can't let ourselves be stupid over it. We vowed to stay alive, remember? Somehow, we have to figure it out. Hunt, and be together. You're more important than anything."

They lay there some moments more, coming down from the rush. Regretfully, Dean knew they couldn't stay like that much longer. Someone would come looking for them, or Charlie would want to check on Sam, and Dean had agreed to look at Charlie's car. It would be better if they were dressed and not swimming in each other's spunk. "How's your arm, Sam?"

* * *

"We will figure it out." Not now, but they had a week or so before Sam would be up to hunting again. A week he and Dean would spend together. Sam smiled and enjoyed Dean's body resting against his. They were both sated and Sam thought that they could lay like this forever.

Eventually, Dean asked about Sam's arm and Sam knew it was time to clean up. "It hurts, but not so bad now. Besides, you've done a good – _awesome_ – job distracting me." He smiled. "What about your chest?"

* * *

"Dude, do I really say 'awesome' that much?" Dean asked. Sam had used that term at least twice now, and he was mimicking Dean. "You're not too bad yourself. Distraction."

Gingerly, he began to free his arms and legs from the tangle of _them_. They reeked to high heaven. There was no way to get around the fact that another shower – for him – was in order, and one for Sam, too. At least he had the excuse of needing to help his brother. So he wouldn't fall. Because Sam wasn't by any means healed yet. That's right.

As for himself, "Doc had ointment that helps with bruising. I should get him to give me some more of that. The bones will knit. It's better than yesterday but still sore." Yeah, he was. Sore, stiff, but not stiff in the way they had been earlier, that was for sure.

Dean pushed himself up, a tight little grin on his face to hide any twinges of pain. There was another reason, too – he was deeply satisfied, sexually, and he almost didn't know what that felt like. Beyond a very few short minutes following sex, he spent his life trying to ignore little niggle in his brain and between his legs that he needed it, that he hadn't had enough.

Their clothes were everywhere, some tangled in the covers, some thrown all the way across the room. Dean found a pair of boxers to wear, and Sam's sweatpants. That would do for the moment. There was nothing to spare to wipe the goo off them, so they'd just have to make a dash for it. "Bathroom's just next door," he told Sam. "We should make a run for it. Or a hobble. You need any help walking?" 

* * *

"I'll try," Sam replied when asked if he could walk. It was hard to say how far he'd manage. Being sick in the first place, Sam was also exhausted from the – incredible – sex and he wanted to sleep so badly... On the other hand, he hated being dirty. It was one of the few things Sam really disliked in a hunter's life. Here, at Harvelle's, there was a bathroom available at all times, which was just heavenly. A twisted kind of heavenly, but still.

The bathroom branched off their bedroom, so they wouldn't be spotted by anyone. It took all of Sam's energy with Dean anxiously watching, but he made it. Breathing hard when he sank down on the closed toilet lid, Sam gave his brother a victorious smile. "You go first. Unless you need this," he nodded down to the toilet, "before the shower."

Sam remembered Charlie and Ellen giving him an ice-cold bath during the night when his fever had spiked, so he assumed that getting wet would be okay, but maybe he should still ask Charlie if he was allowed to bathe. That, however, would mean facing the doctor while he was till covered in semen and sweat.

"Dean, maybe I should just rinse the stuff off. I really don't want my arm to go bad again." He shuddered, hard.

* * *

"No, I'm fine." Dean could see with his own eyes that Sam could barely stand and walk. He was proud of his brother for making it on his own. It was only logical Sam didn't want to attempt the slippery tiles or porcelain of a shower. Dean could pee in the shower. That was kind of fun, anyway. Sam should stay where he was. 

Turning on the water, he waited for it to warm up, meanwhile finding some clean towels and wash cloths in the cupboard under the sink. The water in the sink turned warm faster, and he wet down a cloth for Sam. "Uh... Should I, or do you want to...?"

Dammit, he was turning into a girl, Dean thought, not for the first time. He knelt on the hard floor, edging himself between Sam's knees. "I want to wash you. Do you mind?" It wasn't that he was horny. There was no way he could do anything right now. He wasn't ready to be separated quite yet. And, he always was happiest when he knew he was taking good care of Sam. "I'll stay away from the arm," he nodded at the wound. 

* * *

Having Dean kneel between Sam's knees felt strange. Sam wanted to wrap his arms around his brother and pull him closer, but he was too drained even for that. How he'd managed to get to the bathroom only a few seconds before, he had no idea. Dean's suggestion of washing him sounded heavenly.

"I'd love that," he smiled weakly. "Dean, I'm..." Interrupted by a yawn, Sam knew that he was too tired to hug his brother, but he leaned forward and rested his head against Dean's. It felt good, safe, warm. "Wiped out. Wish I could shower with you, but... Another day. Just like... everything else..." 

* * *

"Sure, no problem." The short walk had drained Sam's strength. Dean would have to be careful not to push him too hard. There was his wound to recover from, as well as the effects of the drugs he'd been taking. 

Arms limp at his sides, Sam leaned forward and dropped his head to Dean's shoulder, murmuring for him to go ahead and wash him. It took several passes of the cloth to get all the cum, which was already starting to crust, from Sam's torso. Next, Dean reached over one-handed and rinsed the wash cloth in the sink, and to grab the bar of soap. The scent wasn't gone yet. He worked up a lather and lightly scrubbed at his brother's chest and stomach, paying close attention to the soft hairs over the center of his pectorals and the coarser ones of his happy trail. Then he used the cloth again to rinse the soap off. Throughout, Sam barely stirred.

"Sam, you're not going to fall off if I get in the shower, are you?" He didn't need his brother surviving all this only to knock himself senseless on the bathroom sink or floor. 

* * *

While Dean washed him, he made sure to always keep a hand on Sam. Sam smiled, enjoying the contact and being so close to his brother. 

"I won't fall off," he said. "I won't be able to take my eyes off you in the shower." Sam could barely keep them open, but he wasn't going to do anything that would cause Dean pain. Regardless of how tired he was, he'd stay awake until Dean had finished showering. He might need his brother's help in getting back to bed later, but for now he'd stay where he was.

* * *

Dean smiled at that, Sam perving over him in the shower. "Don't know how much you'll see, since I'll have to close the curtain or risk flooding the place," he joked. "I'll be quick."

He stood, helping his brother lean back and find a comfortable position he wouldn't fall from. Sam got himself situated, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. Testing the water, and finding it hot, Dean turned some cold on to temper it and dropped his boxers, stepping under the spray. Damn, that was nice. He'd never in his life had two showers in one morning; he was going to get spoiled. Before doing anything else, he pissed down the drain, a shudder running through him at the end. His junk had had a workout lately. It made him grin. 

Then Dean checked on Sam, who was still upright with his eyes down to slits. "Hey, no conking out!" Dean told him. He left the curtain partway open, enough to see out if he bent forward, and got down to business. The drying mess on his chest and lower was itchy, and, soap in hand he washed that first, from neck to nutsack, picking at the crust where he had to. Although his dick was still in soft mode, and just as well, Dean's nipples were game, tightening into peaks when he scrubbed his chest. A bit furtively, he pinched them each once and let it be. 

He looked out at Sam, who was more than a little glazed but still fine. In general, he had sweated plenty under the covers with Sam, so Dean gave the rest of his body a cursory once-over. Although... His armpits and ass were the worst, so he paid the most attention there. 

Since he'd already washed his hair earlier, that meant he was done. Shutting off the tap, Dean opened the curtain and reached for the towel he'd left on the sink. 

* * *

As Dean had announced, Sam couldn't see much through the shower curtain. There was an open gap through which Dean would look at Sam every now and again, and Sam smiled back every time, a warm feeling spreading through him. Altogether, he was feeling rather hot, so maybe his fever was returning...

Dean finished his shower and stepped out of the tub. Despite his tiredness, Sam loved the sight of him. Water was running from his brother's hair down his chest, where his nipples had hardened into tiny pink peaks, then down to the soft curls where his cock was... not quite hanging but not quite stiff either.

Sam's eyes narrowed at the colored bruises on Dean's right side. "You should have Charlie wrap that up again," he suggested.

When Dean started toweling his hair, Sam smiled at the satisfied grunts and sighs Dean made. To them, having a bathroom with hot water, functioning lights, clean towels, and no evil things on their backs or the next job already breathing down their necks, was a rare thing. As much as Sam wanted to be back on his feet, they'd make the best out of their enforced break.

Just as Dean was finishing drying his chest, a pounding sound came from the bedroom.

"Everything okay in there?"

* * *

The Winchesters had shown up the previous night, looking worse than whatever the cat dragged in. There'd been a couple of hours of activity that Jo would describe as frantic but restrained. First, Dean appeared. Jo saw in the mirror along the back wall but she'd have sensed it. From the first time they'd met, she'd been violently attracted to the man, for all that he was bad news. Even her mother called Dean 'handsome'. Jo would have said hot enough to melt paint off the walls and twice as dangerous. The sarcastic, sometimes arrogant twist to his mouth prevented a full-blown obsession, and she was thankful for that. The wavelength of his voice in her ears told her that he was in the Roadhouse as well, the low throb of it twisting lazily through her auditory receptors and lower. Sam, on the other hand, she felt uncomfortable around. Something about him read deceit to her, for all that he was more polite, and never hit on her. 

Ellen had yelled that she was to watch the bar. She'd closed it down that night at the usual 3AM, and between those two events, her mother's man Charlie had carried in Sam, injured and unconscious, followed by Dean and Ellen, and there'd been plenty of scurrying about and a variety of other sounds from the back rooms. Whatever had happened to Sam, he was in rough shape. Before she'd gone to bed, Charlie had appeared in the darkened bar and told her in a few terse sentences that, enough Sam had been shot, what he had done for him treatment-wise, that the two hunters would be staying a few days, and that he and Ellen would keep watch over their patient till morning, but she was expected to take over when they crashed. She nodded agreement. For a short while, no more than 30 minutes, she’d spelled them so that they could each have a few minutes to themselves and get more coffee.

Her own room in the basement freed her from having to listen to what must have been a rough night, other than footsteps across the floorboards a couple of times. Ash had kicked at her door at 9AM, calling that there was a delivery to be signed for and put away, and Jo rolled out of bed, not happy at having to face the day already. 

As she approached Sam's (and Dean's, likely) temporary room, she was sure she heard moaning. The weird thing was, not only could she not distinguish for sure which of them it might be, which was strange, considering how she keyed to Dean's voice, but it kind of sounded like both of them. Ash, annoyingly chipper, barked at her again, so Jo took her hand off the doorknob and detoured to the back door and impatiently-waiting beer delivery man. It took twenty minutes to get their order squared and put up. 

When Jo was finally able to hurry herself back to the hallway and the Winchesters' room, she paused a moment to listen. All seemed quiet. But the door was locked. She knocked, but there was no answer. Had the idiots snuck off when she was busy? She should have heard the Impala's engine – the beast was loud. Well, no time for modesty, here. Ellen would kick her ass if she didn't treat a patient correctly, and she'd have to line up behind Jo herself. Since people seemed to think she shouldn't hunt, the younger Harvelle had taken it upon herself to learn emergency first aid and more, so at least she could do _something_ useful. Jo knocked again, louder, and called out, "Sam? Dean? It's Jo. Open up."

Nothing. Sighing, Jo palmed her lock pick and sprung the door. She walked right in. No one! But there were articles of clothing tossed her and there and... Good lord. Jo wasn't as inexperienced as her mother thought – she wrinkled her nose at the thick, rank scent of semen and male rut. It had to have been Dean taking care of 'things'. The thought made her blush and tingle for a second. From what Charlie had said, Sam wouldn't be up for at least a couple of days, not to mention that sort of 'up'. She could hear the shower running, but then it was shut off. And... Dean talking, then Sam, briefly. What? Both of them in there? She supposed Sam must have needed help and Dean had had to do the honors as nurse. Let's hope he wasn't pissed about it, or she'd bear everyone's wrath. 

Sighing again, Jo pounded on the bathroom door, but didn't try to open it. She called, "Everything alright in there? I'm here to check on Sam's arm and so forth." Nothing. "Well? I'm waiting. I'm sure Sam needs some pain pills by now, and I am not going to be responsible for any festering."

* * *

It was Jo, out in _their_ room, probably rooting through their stuff, making who knew what assumptions. Dean rolled his eyes and cracked the door open, first making sure Sam was out of sight of it, holding his body mostly behind it. A view of his naked chest was sure to put Jo into a dither and he'd just smooth-talk his way over any uncomfortable questions. "Hey, Jo," Dean smirked at the jittery young woman. "Picked any locks lately?" 

"Answer the door much?" Jo returned. She didn't even try to prevent herself from raking what little of Dean's bare chest she could see with her eyes. "Are you naked in there? Just get Sam out here so I can check on him... Or let me in," she demanded. 

* * *

"Great." Sam rolled his eyes when he recognized Jo's voice. He wasn't too keen on yet another person pawing at him – another person who wasn't Dean. Also, he had a feeling that she didn't like him much. He assumed it was jealousy from her side: it was more than obvious that the girl had a major crush on Dean. Furthermore, she wanted to be a hunter, and Sam was not only spending all of his time together with his brother but whatever hunting skills Jo had, she'd never team up with Dean. She had Sam's sympathy, but that wouldn't change anything for her. Even worse, if she ever found out, she'd likely interpret his concern as pity, which Sam was sure wouldn't go down well.

And they'd better have a good excuse at hand. She'd asked if they were naked, which they weren't – Dean had managed to get into his boxers again and was helping Sam with his sweat pants right now, but how would they excuse that Sam wasn't wearing a shirt? And why was Sam sitting on the toilet half-naked while Dean was taking a shower?

"We'll be out in a second," Sam tried to call out to her but his voice was still hoarse.

"Shit, Dean, what are we going to tell her why we're in here?"

* * *

Clearly, Sam was as non-thrilled as Dean that it was Jo at their door. He shimmied into his boxers and picked up Sam's sweatpants. Thinking fast, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "We'll just say... that you had to go to the bathroom and needed help walking." 

Sam's eyes were darting around the little room as if he'd been caught doing something very wrong. They couldn't act like that, starting with right now. Dean touched Sam's shoulder to get his attention. The hazel eyes turned up at him, skittish but trusting. "Sam, you're a dude! You can take your shirt off to sleep if you damn well feel like it. And I can, too, like this." He held his arms up, body language calling attention to his only piece of clothes being his boxers. It wouldn't explain why their clothes were tossed everywhere. If questioned, he'd just say 'they were slobs, so fuck off'. 

"Let me help you back to bed, alright?" Dean tipped his chin to indicate Sam should stand. "Do you need to, you know, go? You never did, all that time after you were shot." Charlie and Ellen were with Sam all night. It was stupid, but the idea of them... If Sam had... And Dean hadn't been there... His teeth clenched tight. 

* * *

Jo retreated to the other side of the room, so she would be out of the path between the bathroom door and Sam's bed. They were taking a long damn time. Charlie had been clear about Sam's medications and rebandaging schedule; no one had said anything about what Dean would need. He might be up front about that, or more likely not. If she had to, she'd play them off each other to get answers. 

Finally, the door opened, and the brothers limped their way across the floor. Jo had to make a supreme effort to keep a straight face. They both looked like hell. The right side of Dean's chest and face were black and blue – and green and purple and yellow. Having seen broken ribs before, Jo thought it likely. Dean should be wrapped. Turning away, she left them to settle themselves. There was some strange layer surrounding them, like a personal space bubble. It was rare that hunters developed close ties, but when they did, they were unbreakable – until someone died. She couldn't face their easy intimacy with each other. It made her eyes water.

Sorting through the pills and supplies Charlie had left, Jo laid out the correct dosages, then darted into the bathroom for a glass of water. This would be a test of her skills. Charlie had cut away the flesh on Sam's arm that had shown the beginnings of gangrene and stitched him – she would need to be thorough, but gentle enough not to disturb the stitches. It wouldn't be pleasant for Sam. In with gauze, tape, and bandages, she found a tube of heparin ointment as well: that would be for Dean. 

"Alright, you ready?" She asked, supplies in hand. Sam was back in bed, under the blankets. Jo would set the items next to him, open them up as much as possible without breaking sterility, and then put gloves on. First, she held out her hands, one with the antibiotics and pain killers and one with the glass of water for Sam to take.

* * *

The way from the bathroom back to his bed was endless. By the time Sam was lying down, he was shaking and sweating, and his vision was graying. He'd meant to tell Dean that he'd peed at least twice during the night – once with Charlie's help, then again later with Ellen's just before Dean had arrived, but he didn't have the energy to speak. 

The stench of sweat and semen was lingering in the room. Why hadn't they opened a window? It was impossible for Jo to miss. Unless she was totally inexperienced, which Sam doubted. The looks she'd been giving Dean ever since they'd first met... On the other hand, Ellen seemed to keep tight reins on her daughter, so he guessed anything was possible.

Whether Jo knew about the recent action the room had seen or not, she focused on preparing supplies for Sam's wound care, starting with antibiotics and painkillers. Sam latched onto the hope that they would kick in fast; his arm was throbbing and burning. Also, he was sure that his fever was back.

Paling a little at the sight of her tray, he looked at Dean's chest, then licked his lips nervously. "Do you think," he said to Jo, "that you could start with Dean? I need a while until these meds start working. Please."

* * *

"Yeah, yes of course," Jo said to Sam. She filed it in her internal collection of nursing notes: _Allow the pills to take effect, then do the wound care._ She didn't need him to be alert for it; it would be better if he wasn't. Sam was sweating profusely and his coloring wasn't good. After taking the cup back from him, she was able to confirm simply by laying a hand over his forehead that his fever was up again, although nothing like what Charlie had described from the night before. Well, the meds would help, and they were fast-acting. 

When she glanced over at Dean, he was, of course, glaring at her. Territorial son of a bitch. Jo pointedly removed her hand from Sam. "You should have your ribs wrapped. I found the heparin, too. That goes on first. Do you want me to do it, or are you going to do it yourself?" Jo hoped her voice came out cocky enough that Dean would be convinced to cooperate, one way or another. Picking up the tube of anticoagulant ointment, she got ready to toss it at him, should he opt for the latter. 

* * *

Manipulative little... Jo, Dean acknowledged, had figured out how to press his buttons in the Sam department. Well, two could play at that game. "Why don't you do it, sweetheart? A woman's touch is always nice... But I'll settle for yours. Since you have some rudimentary training and all." He wasn't about to mention that he'd have been more than willing to let Jo handle Sam's injury when they showed up the night before, had no one else been available. Dean knew now that it had been well beyond her abilities, even Charlie had given him a reserved outlook, but that too would remain unsaid. He just wanted her to hurry the hell up, and get out. 

* * *

"Sit your ass down." Jo ordered. There was a straight-backed chair across the room. She strode over and dragged it nearer, plunking it down and giving Dean enough eyebrow language he would know what to do. Turning her back on him, she rifled through the drawers of the bedside table. Yes, there were long elastic wrap-round bandages. Charlie had made sure they were well stocked. 

When she turned around again, Dean was slouched on the chair, hips pushed forward and knees spread wide while his torso curved concave so only his shoulders and up touched the chair back. The position left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He had to be hurting like hell, to sit like that. 

Running a baleful eye over him, Jo imitated her mother's no-nonsense tone in telling him to sit up straight. This was going to suck. Oh sure, she'd wanted to get her hands on the man for months, but not under circumstances like this, and sure as hell not with his injured brother in the room. She approached and tried to stand in his blind spot, to the side and well back, but he stared up into her face, the bastard, and she couldn't reach all the bruising from there, anyway. It didn't please Jo in the least that first, she had to stand between his legs to finish and clip the wrapping around Dean's chest; and second, his body didn't react in the slightest. Jo managed to keep her breathing steady, mostly. Managing to do a good job, quickly, with steady hands wasn't much of a sop to her ego. 

Sam was next. "Sam, how are you feeling? Meds kicked in yet?" She got no coherent answer, and Sam's eyelids were all but closed, so she took that as a yes. 

"Get up, I need the chair," she told Dean, who didn't exactly jump right up. More like dragged himself. 

Jo positioned herself and peeled the dressings off Sam's arm. The skin was hot and red, which was expected, and would be for a day or two more. Inspecting it closely, including putting her head near enough to sniff, Jo determined there was no infection. She donned the gloves, muttered, "Sorry, Sam," got to work. For all that the guy made her uneasy, maybe in part because he was so damned huge, she felt sympathy for him now. She had to clean all the raw flesh around his stitches, and then rebandage with the correct proportions of antibiotic cream against his wound being able to get oxygen. As expected, Dean was right there breathing down her neck the entire time, oblivious to her snapping at him to back off. 

Finally, Jo finished taping down the new dressings. She threw the dirty ones away, straightened the supplies, and turned to Dean, prepared to give him her report with instructions. 

He cut her off. "Yeah, I got it. I'll watch him okay? Just go." Dean was still out of it, and she told him so. 

* * *

Dean knew all about picking battles and he decided this was one. It wasn't that he didn't like Jo. She was a good kid despite everything, and he was grateful of her care of him, and especially of Sam, he just needed to be alone with his brother. 

"Look, I can go another 20 hours on 'out of it'. I'm fine. Thanks, okay? You've got good hands, I saw how gentle you were with Sam, and I will call if we need anything. But... Leave us alone now." 

Jo huffed and turned on her heel, stomping through the door. Dean locked it behind her and sat down on the chair, watching his brother sleep.


End file.
